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FOREST  LEAVES 


AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 


CHARLES  WESLEY  KYLE 


HANDSOMELY  ILLUSTRATED 


For  every  aspiration  of  the  Soul 
Which  thou  wouldst  better  know  and  satisfy, 
Go  to  the  fount  of  knowledge — Nature's  fount  — 
Receive  from  out  her  hand  the  truth  unsoiled, 
And  thou  shaft  find  a  rest  naught  else  can  give. 


SAN   FRANCISCO 

D.  S.  STANLEY  &  COMPANY,  PRINTERS  AND  PUBLISHERS 
1894 


COPYRIGHT,  1894,  BY  C.  \V.  KYL/E 

ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 


CONTENTS 


FOREST  LEAVES. 


PAGE 

Proem xiii 

The  Anthem  of  the  Hills i 

A  California  Autumn 3 

The  Golden  Gate 4 

Ambition 4 

The  Sunlight  on  the  Hills 5 

The   Wood-Nymph 6 

Contentment 7 

On  the  Bay 8 

The  Mountain    Shore 9 

The  Peace  of  Nature 10 

The  Rose's   Tomb 10 

Inverness  n 

Gold  Lake n 

Song  to  the  Sierras 12 

Divinity  of  Nature 14 

When  the  Day-God  Dies 14 

An  Autumn  Impression 15 

To  a  Robin 16 

A  May  Morning  in  the  Wood 17 

Lilies 18 

An  Admonition 19 

The  Winding  Eel 21 

A  Night  in  Camp 22 

The  Truthful  Angler 23 

The  Supreme  Moment 25 

The  First  Day  of  the  Season 26 

Queen  of  the  Hills 28 

The  Music  of  the  Reel 29 

Beauties  of  Nature 30 

The  Burning  of  Mt.  Tamalpais 31 

Hail  and  Farewell 33 

California's  Old  Year S3 

The  Autograph  of  God 34 

Evening  in   the  Hills 35 

The  Honest  Worshiper 35 

My  Harp 36 

Music 37 

Winter  in  New  England 37 

Elusive  Song 39 

New-Year's  Morning 39 

A  Mountain  Picture 40 

The  Snow  Plant  of  the  Sierras 41 

W7hat  is  Poetry? 42 


PAGE 

Evening 43 

The  Rain 44 

To  the  Sportsmen  of  the  Hills 45 

Retrospection 47 

New-Year  Reflections 49 

The  Death  of  Summer 50 

The   Proposal 52 

November 53 

To  the  Mourning  Dove 54 

The  Burial  of  Summer 55 

Amid  God's  Greater  Thoughts 56 

Tomb  of  Helen  Hunt  Jackson 57 

The  Fontaine-qui-bouiile 59 

Cheyenne  Canon 61 

The  Mountain  Brook 62 

The  Maid  to  the  Ocean 62 

The  Old  Sea  Cave 63 

The  Birth  of  Day 64 

Ocean  Coursers 65 

Beautiful   Meadows 65 

When  Rover  Died 66 

The  Mountain  Stream 67 

Pleasures  A-Field 68 

My  Cigar 69 

When  the  Jack-Snipe  Comes 70 

To  the  Ocean 71 

The  Dryad's  Chamber 72 

Cathedral  Spires  —  Yosemite 73 

Spring 74 

California  Quail '. 74 

Reflections 75 

The  Seasons 76 

A  Summer  Noon 78 

With  My  Old  Shot-Gun 78 

A  Primitive  Angler 79 

The  Yosemite  Valley 81 

Evening  on  Mt.  \Vhitney 83 

My  Hunting  Dog 85 

The  Sun-kissed  Sea 86 

Brambles  and  Corn 87 

On  Seeing  a  Rosebud  in  the  Street 91 

The  Destruction   of  Pompeii 91 

Things  to  Love 94 


Vll 


749C03 


CONTENTS. 

THE    ANGELS    OF    SHILOH PAGE  99 

THE    LOVERS    OF    SHILOH "    120 

DIALECT   POEMS. 


PAGE 

Music  in  the  Barkin'  uv  a  Dog 151 

Little  Cricket  155 

Ez  Faithful  ez  a   Dog 159 

The  Sperit  Messenger 163 


PAGE 

Beauty  on  a   Point 165 

Our  Toniest  Sassiety 166 

Livin'  Furever  in  a  Day 169 


MABEL  GRAY PAGE  173 


BLOSSOMS  AND  BRIARS. 


Those  Eyes  of  Brown 

Waiting 

The  Rule  by  which  to  Live 

My  World 

Edens  I'm  Seeking  to  Find 

My  Mother 

For  Those  We  Love 

My  Heart  is  Strangely  Sad  To-night 

Life 

Bird   Song 


PAGE 

.-  193 

...  194 

...  196 

...  197 

,..  198 

...  199 

...  199 
3OO 

apo 

201 

Faithful   to  the  End 201 

Come  with  Thy  Harp  202 

My  Friend  203 

My  Mother's    Death 204 

The  Statue  to  Pygmaleon  

The  Evening  of  Life 

Cupid's  Blossoms 

When  I  am  Old 

Little  Cupid 

Oh,  Let  Me  Dream  

Duality 

Love's  Longing 

Pluck  the  Roses  Ere  They  Die  

Who  Came  to  Me  in  My  Dream? 

Love's  Golden    Hours 

My  Love  

First  Hours    of  Love 

Why  Chide  Me?  

I  Love  Thee  Still 

As  First  I  Saw  Thee 


205 
205 
206 
207 
208 
209 
209 

210 
211 
211 
212 
212 
213 
213 
214 
214 


PAGE 

Oh  Slumber,  My  Darling 215 

Immortal  Love 215 


Ruth  

The  Lover's  Lament 

In  Memory  of  Hon.  John  B.  Finch... 

What  the  Bird  Said 

Unforgiven 

A  Rare  Flower 

Death  Shadows 

Memory  is  Mine 

To  a  Lovely  Maid 

Lovely  Fairy  Isabel 

The  Lover's  Despair 

Gems 

My  Bride 

Caroline 

Mary  Dean's  First  Kiss 

Heleiie  

Jane 

Ideality 

Alone 

Turning  of  the  Tide 

A  Mystery 

Loving   and  Fishing 


Why? 

Come,  Love,  and  Speak 

To  a  Child 

To  Violet 

To  an  Absent  Love 


233 

234 

234 

235 

..  236 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Friendship 236 

Calming  the  Storm 237 

A  Toast  at  a  Banquet 237 

On  the  Death  of  a  Lady 238 

My  Creed 238 

Bury  Our  Love? 239 

Darling  Wilma 239 

A  Vision 241 

Written  in  a  Young  Lady's  Album 241 

Address  to  Death 242 

Tulips 242 

Golden  Hair 242 

What  is  Death? 243 

To  a  Beautiful  Maiden 244 

The  Sea  of  Galilee 245 

Source  of  Consolation 246 

246 

247 

247 

248 

248 

249 

250 


Her  Grave 

Despondency  

The  Outcast 

Experience 

My  Other  Self..... 
An  Ocean  Grave. 
The  Past... 


To  a  Faded  Flower 

Eternity 

A  Question 

My  Queen 

The  Prophecy 


PAGE 

....  250 
....  251 
....  251 

251 

....    252 

The  Old  Homestead 252 

Lady  Brown 253 

Whatever  You  Will 254 

The  Tireless  Ship 255 

Venice 256 

A  Twilight  Memory 256 

The  Haunted  Lake 257 

Dreaming 258 

An  Angel's  Visit 259 

Life's  Lesson 259 

A  Magical  City 260 

On  Kissing 261 

Without  and  Within 261 

Queen  of  the  Muses 261 

Sunset 262 

The  Lovers 263 

Self-Admonition 264 

A  Message 264 


PATRIOTIC  AND   MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


PAGE 

Independence  Day 267 

The  Sword  of  Grant 269 

A  Leader's   Death 270 

The  Old  Man's   Request 272 

Injustice  of  Idleness 272 

The  Sword  of  Wallace 273 

The  Warrior's  Death 273 

The  Long  Roll  is  Beating 274 

The  Call  to  Arms 275 

A  Royal  Legacy 276 

The  Disaster  of  Johnstown 278 

World's  Columbian  Exhibition 281 

The   Charge 282 

October  Hills 283 

Forgiveness 283 

The  Christmas  Tree 284 


Elijah  and  the  Ravens  .......... 

Love's  Tribute 

W'ayside  Pleasures 

What  Dame  Rumor  Said 

Independence 

The  Struggle  for  Bread 

Diana's  Defeat 

A  Glimpse  of  Spring 

Wrong  is  of  Night 


PAGE 

285 
286 
287 
287 
288 
289 
290 
291 
291 


Hail,  Brother,  Hail  ..................................  292 

My  Old  Duck-Call  ...................................    293 

Under  the  Greenwood  Tree  .....................  295 

A  Little  Princess  .......................................  297 

Two  Central  Points  ...................................  297 

Mountain  Pleasures  ..................................  298 

Alpha  and   Omega  ...................................  299 


IX 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Portrait  of  the  Author 

The  Anthem  of  the  Hills 

Contentment 

The  Robin 

A  Night  in  Camp 

The  Music  of  the  Reel 

My  Harp 

A  Mountain  Picture 

To  the  Sportsmen  of  the  Hills 

The  Mourning  Dove 

Tomb  of  Helen  Hunt  Jackson 

The  Old  Sea  Cave 

Ocean  Coursers 

The  Mountain  Stream 

The  Dryad's  Chamber 

General  View  of  Yosemite  Valley 

Yosemite  Falls 

The  Sun-Kissed  Sea 

At  Quiet  Hour  of  Even-Tide 

Aurora 

Arzelia 

Music  in  the  Barkin'  uv  a  Dog 

Ez  Faithful  ez  a  Dog 

Beauty  on  a  Point 

Pioneer's  Home 

Fannie !  Fannie  !  Come  Here,  Darling 

The  Eagle's  Nest 

Those  Eyes  of  Brown 

Little  Cupid 

Mary  Dean's  First  Kiss 

Silver  Bells  Beneath  the  Sea 

The  Sea  of  Galilee....  


PAGE 

.Painted  bv  H.  Raschen Frontispiece 

"  "  "  i 

Drawn  by  C.  E.    Tebbs 7 

16 

Drawn  by  W.  H.  Byrnes 22 

Drawn  by  C.  E.    Tebbs 29 

,         "  "  "  36 


.Drawn  bv  Hr.  H.  Byrnfs 

.  Drawm  bv  C.  E.    Tebbs 


Drawn  bv  IV.  H.  Byrnes 


.Drawn  by  C.  E.   Tebbs 

.Painted  by  J.  K.  O'Neal 100 

"  "  102 

120 

.Painted  by  H,  Raschen  151 

..  Drawn  bv  C.  E.  Tebbs 159 


174 

Drawn  by  Epting      179 

Drawn  by  C.  E.   Tebbs 190 

193 

.  Drawn  by  C.  E.  Tebbs  208 

224 

Painted  by  H.  Raschen 230 

.  Drawn  by  C.  E.  Tebbs 245, 


TO   ALMA   KYLE -HUFFMAN. 


ISTER,  whose  love  of  Nature  taught 

Mine  own  to  love  the  mountains  grand  ; 
For  whom   in  youth  I  plucked  and  brought 

The  first  bright  flowers  of  all  the  land  ; 
My  first  bouquet  of  "  Forest  Leaves," 

Culled  from  fair  Mother  Nature's  breast, 
I  bring  to  thee,  while  my  heart  grieves 

To  think  they  are  not  fairest  —  best. 


c.  w.  K. 


PROEM. 

Come,  let  us  sail,  with  what  success  we  may, 

To-morrow  may  be  still  a  cloudy  day ; 

Perchance  the  waves  of  yon  great  untried  sea 

May  be  more  smooth  than  they  appear  to  be ; 

And  yon  great  breakers  little  dangers  hold, 

If  we  be  firmly  brave,  and  calmly  bold. 

I've  heard  it  oft,  that  literary  sharks 

Love  most  to  pounce  upon  dull,  timid  marks  ; 

For,  like  the  vultures,  they  exulting  soar 

O'er  lifeless  wrecks  cast  high  upon  the  shore. 

Their  guns  shoot  just  as  far,  roar  just  the  same, 

Be  katydids  or  elephants  their  game ! 

Old  sages  wrote,  and  I  believe  it  still, 

That  half  the  battle  lieth  in  the  will. 

No  doubt  that  thousands  would,  but  somehow  don't, 

And  other  thousands  could,  but  then  they  won't. 

So  if  this  voyage  ever  is  to  be, 

Why,  we  must  sail  it,  risk  the  untried  sea ; 

And  if  our  boat  a  dull  illusion  prove, 

The  troubled  dream  will  soon  be  safely  o'er ; 

Far  better  this,  than  never  dare  to  move, 

And  rotting  lie  upon  the  lifeless  shore. 

So  lend  a  hand,  all  willing  friends  —  here  goes, 

With  kind  regards  to  you  —  deuce  take  our  foes. 


Xlll 


FOREST   LEAVES 


THE   ANTHEM   OF  THE   HILLS. 


THE   ANTHEM   OF   THE   HILLS. 


I  climbed  amid  the  granite  spires  and  domes 

Of  Nature's  temples.     The  scene  was  morning  — 

Early  morn  — for  yet  the  shroud  of  night 

Was  folded  over  all  the  nearer  hills, 

And  that  strange  and  most  impressive  silence 

Of  expectancy,  which  rules  the  moments 

That  precede  momentous  revelations, 

Pressed  heavily  upon  fair  Nature's  lips. 

Night's  mantle  ruled  the  sight,  save  one  pale  view, 

Which  to  the  eye  appeared  as  if  the  moon, 

New-born,  had  fallen  from  the  skies  and  caught, 

With  points  downturned,  upon  a  mountain's  brow 

To  eastward. 


The  twinkling  stars  shone  brightly, 
But,  as  I  gazed,  their  gold  to  silver  turned, 
And  Night,  with  noiseless  winging,  moved  away. 
Beyond  the  mountain  peaks  Morn's  heralds  gleamed, 
Their  brilliant  lances  piercing  all  the  sky. 
The  world  awoke:  hard  by,  from  out  the  pines, 
A  blue  jay  called;   robins  a-wing  gave  key 
To  all  the  leafy  woodland's  matin  choir. 
The  mellow  murmur  of  the  ocean's  waves 
Came  floating  faintly  from  afar,  and  there 
The  wakened  sea-fowl,  screaming,  rose  and  fanned, 
With  measured  stroke,  the  slowly  whitening  air. 
A  light  and  balmy  breeze  strayed  softly  o'er 
The  organ  of  the  pines,  to  try  the  keys; 
The  mountain  streams  murmured  a  louder  strain, 
And  all  the  instruments  were  found  attuned. 


THE  ANTHEM    OF   THE    HILLS. 


A  ray  of  gold  shot  ,  e'er  the  mountain's  brow; 


magic  signal  wand, 
And  then,  cle'arly  'but  softly,  there  arose, 
In  unison,  two  voicings  from  the  glen  — 
A  duet,  sung  by  mountain-brook  and  bird! 
So  sweet,  the  winds  ceased  winging  and  gave  ear, 
Rendering  all  the  listening  throng  complete. 
Again  the  leader's  bright  wand  waved  apace, 
And  other  voices  from  the  feathered  throng 
Joined  in  the  song.     A  gleam!  and  all  was  still. 
The  low  winds  softly  played  an  interlude, 
And  then  the  black-  winged  oriole,  master 
Of  all  the  mountain  choir,  a  solo  gave, 
So  pure  and  sweet  in  melody,  each  note 
Proclaimed  the  very  soul  of  perfect  song, 
Which,  floating  on  the  air,  there  wove  complete 
A  psalm  of  joy  all  inexpressible! 
Then  came  the  choral  of  the  full-voiced  throng, 
And  there  was  heard  such  bursts  of  harmony 
As  stirred  the  fibers  of  the  human  heart, 
And  drew  from  out  emotion's  deepest  well 
The  pearly  gems  of  purest  joy!  the  while, 
Trembling  with  ecstasy,  my  very  soul 
Leaned  out  to  catch  the  meaning  of  the  song. 

Adorned  with  robes  of  light,  the  mountains  round, 

.And  all  the  rocky  glens,  re-echoed,  o'er  and  o'er  again, 

The  song.     The  tall  pines  trembled;  every  key 

Responding  to  the  touches  of  the  wind, 

While  ever  and  anon  the  charming  scenes 

Of  variegated  cloud  and  changing  light 

Were  shifted  to  and  fro  by  hands  unseen. 

These  draperies,  clinging  to  peak  and  sky, 

Were  blendings  of  pearl-gray,  of  blue  and  gold, 

More  beautiful  in  color  and  design 

Than  the  imagination  can  conceive, 

Or  skill  of  greatest  master  can  portray. 

The  perfect  music  swelling  from  that  throng 

'Sounded  a  paean  of  triumphal  joy; 

When,  lo!  the  god  of  day,  mounting  the  sky 

With  dazzling  splendors,  ushered  in  his  rule. 


A  CALIFORNIA   AUTUMN. 

The  hills  are  bronzed  with  Summer's  dying  breath 
The  sunlight  sifting  through  the  haze, 

Of  half-formed  cloud,  which,  like  a  dream 
But  half-remembered,  folds  the  days 
In  robes  of  softened  orange  gleam, 
Befitting  Summer's  universal  death. 

Down  from  the  hills  the  rivers  murmur  low, 
As  on  their  journeys  to  the  sea 

They  would  their  notes  of  song  defer, 
And  in  low-spoken  tones  agree 
With  spirit  of  this  sepulcher, 
Where  gentle  winds  are  winging  soft  and  slow. 

Down  by  the  sea  the  billows  of  the  tide 
Beat  softly  'gainst  the  rock-ribbed  shore, 

Appealing  with  their  lips  of  white, 
In  voicings  of  a  muffled  roar, 

Alike  through  hours  of  day  and  night, 
For  peace  and  rest  which  ever  is  denied. 

Beyond  the  stubble-fields,  the  water-oaks 
And  manzanita  tangles  lie 

In  the  arroyos  of  the  hills; 
And  holding  Summer's  hands,  defy 

The  encroachment  of  Autumn's  ills, 
Emeralding  the  bronze  which  Nature  cloaks. 

The  mountain  tops  are  robed  in  sombre  blue; 
The  forest  trees  let  fall  their  gold, 

Which  carpets  deeply  all  the  ground, 
Or  by  the  winds  is  gently  rolled 
In  many  a  pyramidal  mound, 
Which  Time  cements  with  falling  rain  and  dew. 

Ivike  a  bronzed  pilgrim,  weary  with  the  strife 
Of  battling  with  the  elements, 

Sweet  Summer  falls  with  moaning  sigh, 
And  with  her  call  to  rest  contents 

Her,  'neath  the  Autumn's  robes  to  lie, 
And  slowly  yield  the  brightness  of  her  life. 


AMBITION. 

THE   GOLDEN   GATE. 

:Make  way!  make  way!"  from  the  ocean  wide. 
Was  heard  the  voice  of  its  restless  tide, 
As  the  dashing  waves,  with  ceaseless  roar, 
Knocked  at  the  gates  of  the  rocky  shore. 

'Give  back,  we  pray,  and  let  us  in, 
Where  we  may  rest  from  the  ocean's  din; 
The  toil  of  ages  has  been  our  fate  — 
One  hour  of  slumber  to  compensate!" 

Thus  pleaded  the  waves  with  sob  and  moan, 
'Til  they  touched  the  heart  of  the  cold,  gray  stone, 
And  the  shore  was  moved  by  the  ocean's  fate, 
And  unlocked  the  bars  of  the  Golden- Gate. 

Then  the  waves  rushed  in,  and,  since  that  day, 
Have  found  a  haven  within  the  bay, 
Where  the  voice  of  children  and  breath  of  flowers 
Have  rendered  sweet  their  restful  hours. 

'Make  way!  make  way!"  comes  another  cry, 
Filling  the  earth  and  the  azure  sky, 
From  that  ocean  strange,  whose  billows  be 
The  troubled  souls  of  humanity! 

With  their  wistful  pleadings  o'er  and  o'er, 
They  knock  at  the  gates  of  a  voiceless  shore; 
The  boundless  shores  of  their  narrow  sea, 
Unknown,  unmeasured  —  Eternity! 

Though  the  shores  be  voiceless  and  tempests  rage, 
Hope  sends  a  gleam  for  an  anchorage; 
And  the  tired  souls  gather  of  strength  to  wait 
'Til  the  bars  shall  drop  from  the  Pearly  Gate. 


AMBITION. 

Could  I  catch  the  soul  of  the  flowers  and  birds, 
Of  the  woodlands  wild,  where  the  Dryads  sing; 

Could  I  place  the  song  of  the  winds  in  words, 
As  hither  and  thither  they  softly  wing; 

Could  I  lose  my  soul  in  the  bright  blue  sky, 
Then  I  think  I  would  be  content  to  die. 


THE  SUNLIGHT  ON  THE  HILLS. 

The  mountains  are  aflame  with  light 

(The  sunlight  rests  upon  the  hills), 
Their  snowy  crowns  a  brilliant  sight, 

From  which  come  flashing  crystal  rills. 
The  day  wears  on  toward  its  close, 

Night's  early  gloom  the  valley  fills; 
While  silence  tends  to  sweet  repose, 

The  sunlight  fades  from  off  the  hills. 

Up,  up  the  rough  and  rocky  steep 

(Above  the  gloom-enshrouded  hills) 
The  evening  shadows  softly  creep, 

Stealing  the  lances  from  the  rills, 
Hushing  the  voices  of  the  earth  — 

The  grinding  of  the  water-mills, 
The  song  of  birds,  the  shouts  of  mirth, 

With  which  the  world  the  daylight  fills. 

The  mountain  heights  now  glow  with  flame, 

( The  sun  is  faded  from  the  hills), 
Their  beauty  rare  eludes  a  name, 

And  every  heart  with  worship  fills. 
Befitting  thrones  for  gods  they  seem  — 

Omnipotence  their  grandeur  wills; 
Their  regal  robes  with  splendors  gleam 

Above  the  drap'ries  of  the  hills. 

Now,  up  the  mountain,  twilight  steals 

(Night  settles  on  the  lower  hills), 
And  to  the  shepherd  boy  reveals 

The  hour  to  pipe  his  evening  trills. 
Adown  the  winding  mountain  way 

The  music  every  crevice  fills, 
Proclaiming  that  the  god  of  day 

Has  died  amid  the  western  hills. 


THE   WOOD-NYMPH. 

Silence!,  tread  softly,  this  spot  is  enchanted: 
For,  just  over  there  in  the  pines, 
A  Wood-nymph  is  drinking  the  wines 
That  are  brewed  in  the  cups 
Of  the  Johnny-jump-ups 
And  the  fresh  golden  dandelions. 

Look!  now  she  is  drinking  from  the  white  lily, 
Which  gracefully  bends  to  her  lips, 
As  of  its  pure  brewing  she  sips; 

Her  wealth  of  dark  tresses, 

The  coy  breeze  caresses  — 
A  beauty  naught  else  can  eclipse. 

See!  now  she  is  looking  through  the  green  leafage, 
To  that  mossy  bank  over  there, 
Half  yielding,  I  see,  is  her  air. 

Behold,  now  she  passes, 

Athwart  the  green  grasses — 
A  queen,  every  whit,  I  declare. 

Now  she  reclines  on  the  sweet  velvet  mosses — 
A  lacing  umbrageous  above — 
To  sleep  and  to  dream  of  her  love; 

While  the  wild  bird  and  bee 

Woos  the  dream-god  to  see 
That  refreshing  her  rest  shall  prove. 

Come  away,  come  away,  no  mortal  should  dare,. 
His  presence  to  ever  make  known — 
Let  her  rest  in  peace  all  alone — 

For  all  Wood-nymphs  are  pure 

And  they  cannot  endure 
A  mortal's  approach  to  their  throne. 


CONTENTMENT. 


In  the  mountains  grand,  where  the  white  river  rushes, 

Foaming  and  singing  with  a  light,  joyous  bound; 
Where  the  wild  roses  creep  with  their  crimson  blushes, 

And  pour  from  their  flagons  sweet  perfume  around; 
There  the  honey-bees,  o'er  the  fresh,  blooming  clover, 

With  the  dragon-flies  hum  a  low,  drowsy  tune — 
Under  the  white  peaks  that  lean  in  and  watch  over, 

Are  green  vales  that  cradle  the  sweet  joys  of  June. 

To  rare  cloud-forms  kissed,  the  white  sea-mist  there  dapples 

The  fathomless  arch  of  the  sweet  Summer  sky; 
In  the  deep,  cooling  shades  grow  the  mango  apples, 

And  slow,  winging  winds  breath  a  gentle  sigh. 
And  there,  at  the  foot  of  the  great  snow-topped  mountains, 

Filling  the  deep  bowl  of  each  pine-circled  urn 
From  the  liquid  wealth  of  their  vast,  snowy  fountains, 

The  calm,  smiling  lakes  to  the  blue  heavens  turn. 


ON    THE    BAY. 

In  the  broad,  rich  valleys  the  green  fields  a-tossing, 

All  heavily  topped  with  rich  kernels  of  gold; 
Billowed  and  necked  by  the  cloud-shadows  crossing, 

As  Summer,  wind-steeded,  is  ov.er  them  rolled. 
The  kine  in  the  meadows  at  midday  are  resting, 

"  Contentment  "  they  picture;  field,  meadow  and  stream, 
With  turtle-dove  silent,  in  water-oak  nesting, 

Draped  with  gray  purple — enchanting  day-dream! 

The  gold-fingered  willows  bend  low  as  to  listen 

To  tale  which  the  mountain  brooks  cheerfully  tell; 
The  blooms  of  the  dog-wood,  star-shaped,  purely  glisten, 

While  rings  for  the  fairies  the  lovely  blue-bell. 
Azaleas  and  buckeyes  enrich  the  wood's  dressing, 

The  blackberries'  crimson  besplashes  the  glen; 
The  robin,  the  charms  of  the  wildwoods  confessing, 

Pours  forth  sweetest  praise,  while  all  echo  "Amen!  " 


ON   THE   BAY. 

Soft,  cloudless  skies  o'er-arched  the  hills  and  sea; 

The  Autumn  day,  one  dream  of  solitude; 

The  air  a  shimmering  veil  of  gold  and  blue, 

Fallen  from  Summer's  slow-departing  form 

For  that  short  interval  of  quietude 

Which  waits  on  Winter's  coming.     Dreamy  scene. 

Breathed  every  sound  a  note  of  melody. 

The  snow-white  swan  afloat  the  swelling  wave, 

And  ships,  with  great  wings  spread,  move  out  to  sea. 

With  oarlocks  drawn  we  drift  but  with  the  tide. 

The  sun  sinks  toward  the  sea;  long  shadows  throw 
Athwart  the  bay  their  unsubstantial  forms. 
The  sea-gulls  and  the  swans,  with  measured  stroke, 
Now  fan  their  way,  each  to  his  chosen  rest. 
Out  from  the  East,  Night  spreads  her  sable  wings, 
And  in  the  West  is  lost  the  gold  of  day. 
No  discord  marks  the  change.     Peace  ruleth  still; 
From  out  the  sombre  arch  of  Autumn's  night, 
A  thousand  scintillating  stars  shine  on — 
God's  sentinels,  which  watch  while  dreams  the  world. 
8 


THE   MOUNTAIN   SHORE. 


There's  a  beautiful  land  toward  the  evening  of  day, 

Where  the  mountains  majestically  rise; 
Where  the  murmuring  fountains  are  ever  at  play 

'Neath  the  softest  and  bluest  of  skies; 
Where  sweet  Summer,  serene,  in  the  valleys  below, 

Lingers  on  one  bright  scene  of  delight; 
Where  the  mountains,  rich  clothed  with  an  emerald  glow, 

Are  a  matchlessly  beautiful  sight. 

Where  the  voice  of  the  streamlets  breaks  ever  in  song 

Of  rich  melody  pure  and  complete, 
As  they  rush  from  the  mountains  through  valleys  along, 

Which  lead  down  to  the  sea  at  their  feet; 
Where  the  stars  of  the  night  with  such  brilliancy  gleam, 

Through  the  soft,  misty  mantle  of  shade; 
Like  the  eyes  of  the  angels  of  heaven  they  seem 

In  their  robes  of  deep  purple  arrayed. 

WThere  the  faintest  of  winds  ever  sigh  o'er  the  land, 

Chanting  low  through  the  evergreen  pine 
The  sweetest  of  music — an  aeolian  band, 

Every  breath  a  sweet  chord  all  divine. 
And  the  sun,  as  its  beams  slowly  die  in  the  West, 

Charms  the  eye  with  a  beautiful  sight — 
Blushing  crimson  and  gold  on  the  mountain's  green  crest, 

As  it  kisses  them  fondly  good-night. 

Oh,  come  to  these  mountains,  ye  children  of  men, 

And  all  these  grand  temples  behold; 
Once  seen,  you  can  ever  recall  them  again, 

As  the  leaves  of  your  meni'ry  unfold; 
These  rough,  rocky  peaks,  towering  up  to  the  sky, 

These  valleys,  soft  velvet  with  sod, 
Are  sceneries  grand  which  all  time  will  defy, 

For  their  painter  and  sculptor  is  God. 


THE    ROSE'S   TOMB. 

THE   PEACE   OF   NATURE. 

Gushing  from  the  green-capped  mountains, 

Where  the  larks  and  daisies  meet, 
Over  shells  and  mossy  pebbles, 

Making  music  low  and  sweet, 
Strays  a  laughing,  silv'ry  brooklet, 

'Neath  the  pine  and  laurel's  shade, 
Bounding  over  terraced  places, 

Like  some  wand'ring  Indian  maid. 
Changing  ever,  yet  forever 

Changeless  in  its  form  and  tone, 
Voicing  Nature's  love  completest, 

When  unstartled  and  alone. 

Thus  preserve  it  for  the  future; 

Marring  not  its  virgin  sod, 
Where  in  beauty  there  is  written 

Message  from  the  hand  of  God. 
Let  the  wild  birds  mate  and  carol, 

Safe  from  the  destroyer's  hand, 
Where  the  raging  seas  are  conquered 

By  the  giants  of  the  land. 
Let  one  spot  be  left  unbroken, 

WThere  the  toils  of  conflict  cease, 
And  where  Nature's  soothing  voices 

Whisper  to  the  weary:  "Peace." 


THE   ROSE'S  TOMB. 

I  saw  a  rose-vine  slowly  creep 

Upward,  along  a  mountain  wall, 

And,  pausing  not  to  rest  or  sleep, 

It  clambered  onward  up  the  steep, 
Braving  the  dangers,  one  and  all. 

At  last  it  reached  the  mountain's  crest, 

Where  am'rous  sunbeams  kissed  to  bloom 

The  buds  with  which  its  life  was  blest; 

Then  plucked  by  Love  was  laid  on  breast 
Of  lady  fair.     How  sweet  a  tomb! 


GOLD    LAKE. 

INVERNESS. 

The  blooming  hills  of  Inverness, 

How  bright  they  gleam, 

How  fresh  they  seem, 
In  robings  rich  of  Summer  dress  ! 
With  beauty's  wealth  of  grace  they  bless- 
The  mind  with  joy — the  heart  caress  ; 

In  every  flower 

A  wondrous  power, 
Waking  the  love  I  now  confess 
For  thee,  my  own  fair  Inverness. 

From  sea  a  veiling  light  of  mist 

Is  drifting  o'er 

Thy  hilly  shore, 
Kissed  by  the  sun  to  amethyst. 
I  could  not  if  I  would  resist 
Thy  subtle  power.     How  deeply  missed 

Thy  shore  and  sea  ? 

In  memory 

Thou  wilt  be  veiled  in  sorrow's  mist, 
Tinted  by  love  to  amethyst. 


GOLD  LAKE. 

Cradled  amid  the  rocky  spires, 

Which  form  the  crown 
Of  earth  ;  where  mountains  pierce  the  skies,. 

And  look  far  down 

From  regions  where  the  drifted  snow 
Beats  back  the  warmth  of  Summer's  glow, 
And  answer  gives  but  in  the  flow 

Of  crystal  rills, 
To  all  earth's  pleadings  from  below, 

Where  Summer  wills. 

Gold  Lake  !  the  gem  of  waters  pure, 

By  sunbeams  kissed 
(Amid  the  rocks  which  time  endure) 

To  amethyst, 

Ivies,  like  a  precious  pearl  of  worth, 
A  jewel  sacred  to  the  earth, 

ii 


SONG   TO   THE   SIERRAS. 

Which  hath  been  guarded  since  the  birth 

Of  mountains  grand  ; 
When  ocean's  universal  girth, 

Gave  up  the  land. 

Serene  and  calm  thy  waters  lie 

Constant  through  years  ; 
Receiving  from  the  changeful  sky 

Her  smiles  and  tears  ; 
Vain  were  the  hope  that  there  should  be 
In  human  hearts,  save  dreamily, 
Reflection  of  thy  constancy, 

Until  a  calm 
Like  thine  shall  come  the  heart  to  free 

By  death's  sure  balm. 

First  to  receive  the  morning's  light, 

Whose  tim'rous  ray 
Invades  the  shadows  of  the  night 

To  herald  day. 

Last  to  receive  the  ray  of  sun, 
Whose  fading  glimmers,  one  by  one, 
Proclaim  his  work  and  journey  done, 

As,  in  the  West, 
He  slowly  dies.     Thus  be  begun 

Our  final  rest. 


SONG   TO   THE   SIERRAS. 

Ye  monuments  of  earth's  unmeasured  splendor, 

Piercing  the  heaven's  uu fathomed  vault  of  blue, 
From  Winter  falling  to  the  flower-laud  tender, 
Which  smiles  to  you  ! 

Ye  lofty  spires  and  granite  domes  uplifted, 

Beyond  the  feeble  power  of  man  to  climb  ; 
The  snows  of  ages  on  your  proud  forms  drifted, 
Vision  sublime  ! 

Voicings  of  God  !    His  power  and  force  unmeasured  ! 

Beyond  all  mortal  scope  to  comprehend 
The  beauties,  by  thy  mighty  giants  treasured 
From  end  to  end. 

12 


SONG  TO  THE   SIERRAS. 

Thy  revelations  brook  not  words  confining  ; 

The  measure  of  our  power  to  think  and  feel, 
Prevents  our  grasping  all  of  His  consigning 
Thou  wouldst  reveal. 

Cathedrals  grand  !  sculptured  by  force  of  ages  ; 

Unheeding  thou  the  constant  flight  of  time  ; 
The  grandest  thought  appearing  on  earth's  pages, 
L/ore  all  sublime  ! 

The  anthem  which  your  mighty  waters  thunder, 

Through  glaciered  peaks,  where  never  man  hath  trod, 
Cause  angel  hosts  to  meditate  and  wonder, 
At  throne  of  God  ! 

Your  placid  lakes  !  mirrors  of  heaven  unnumbered  ! 
Framed  with  the  snows  and  unconsuming  fires  ; 
How  long,  fair  gems,  have  ye  thus  sweetly  slumbered 
Amid  these  spires  ? 

Your  matchless  forms  sermons  divine  are  preaching, 

From  glaciered  peak  to  foot-beverdured  sod  ; 
The  fragrant  flowers,  within  thy  vales,  are  teaching 
The  way  to  God. 

Your  lovely  brooks,  which  tinkle  to  the  measure 

Of  granite  keys,  o'er  which  they  leap  and  play, 
Voice,  constantly,  a  melody  of  pleasure, 
Both  night  and  day. 

The  pine-clad,  vales,  begemmed  with  bloom  and  beauty,. 

To  every  sense  of  head  and  heart  appeal ; 
With  stately  grace  perform  their  highest  duty — 
God  to  reveal. 

Immortal  beauty  !  grandeur  all  supernal  ! 

From  awe-inspiring  summit  to  the  rose, 
Thy  voicings — all  thy  teachings— are  eternal, 
Though  Time  should  close. 

Imperial  sculpturings  of  God's  true  glory, 

So  long  as  thou  shalt  point  unto  the  sky, 
Telling  to  man  the  grand  immortal  story, 
Hope  cannot  die. 


WHEN    THE    DAY-GOD    DIES. 

DIVINITY   OF   NATURE. 

Who  that  has  felt  the  solemn  power 
Of  mountain  groves  of  pine, 

For  even  one  short,  fleeting  hour, 
Can  doubt  a  power  divine  ? 

Is  it  but  winds  and  mountains  high, 
But  trees  and  grass  and  flowers  ; 

But  suowry  peaks  and  azure  sky, 
That  so  enchant  these  bowers  ? 

Why  should  the  soul  that  comes  in  touch 

With  Nature's  work  alone 
Be  drawn  to  better  thoughts  so  much, 

If  soul-power  be  unknown  ? 

'Tis  not  the  trees  and  mountains  grand, 
The  sea,  the  flowers,  the  sky  ; 

They  are  but  the  Great  Master's  wand, 
Drawing  our  thoughts  on  high. 

The  finer  arts  our  spirits  raise, 
From  grosser  ties  of  earth  ; 

In  them  is  sung  the  swreetest  praise 
To  Him  who  gave  us  birth. 


WHEN   THE   DAY-GOD   DIES. 

The  splashing  of  the  fountains 

And  the  murmur  of  the  rills 
In  the  royal,  snow-capped  mountains, 

And  the  lower  wooded  hills, 
Hush  their  tones  almost  to  silence, 

And  a  veil  creeps  o'er  the  skies, 
As  Time  pauses  for  a  moment 

When  the  golden  day-god  dies. 


AN   AUTUMN   IMPRESSION. 

I  stood  in  the  hills  when  Autumn 

Had  painted  them  crisp  and  brown, 
And  saw  the  robes  of  the  forest 

Falling  regretfully  down — 
At  least  the  wavering  motion 

Of  each  gold  and  scarlet  leaf 
Seemed  to  me  as  if  voicing 

The  soul  of  unmeasured  grief. 

The  bare,  blue  arms  of  the  buckeyes, 

The  gaunt,  dead  limbs  of  the  pines, 
Were  full  of  sorrowful  meaning — 

As  a  heart  when  it  hope  resigns. 
The  wind,  with  a  low  intoning, 

A  requiem  softly  sung, 
And  mist,  like  of  tears,  was  falling 

As  from  heart  of  Nature  wrung. 

The  grasses  were  dried  and  withered, 

The  song-birds  had  mostly  fled  ; 
The  flowers  had  long  since  been  gathered, 

And  Summer  lay  cold  and  dead. 
A  funeral  train  was  passing — 

The  mourners  I  seemed  to  hear — 
Muffled  and  lowr  was  the  sobbing, 

Tear-stained  the  face  of  the  year. 

The  notes  of  the  wind  grew  louder, 

And  trembled  each  tiny  spray  ; 
The  skies  overhead  grew  brighter, 

And  the  mists  were  swept  away. 
The  gold  of  the  sunbeams  falling 

Changed  the  erstwhile  mournful  scene, 
Until  it  appeared  befitting 

The  throne  of  a  royal  queen. 

The  light  in  the  West  was  gorgeous — 

Most  brilliant  of  all  the  day; 
Kissing  the  forest-clad  mountains, 

And  gilding  each  leaf  and  spray. 
It  seemed  to  me  as  a  message  : 

That  darkness  and  death  and  pain 
Were  steps  in  Life's  great  procession — 

That  all  things  should  live  again. 
15 


TO   A   ROBIN. 

Thou  merry  herald  of  the  Spring, 

Thy  liquid  notes,  so  pure  and  sweet, 

Throughout  the  fields  and  orchards  ring, 
Telling  of  Winter's  sure  retreat. 

Fortelling  birth  of  grass  and  flowers, 

Of  springing  corn  and  waving  wheat — 

All  children  of  the  sun  and  showers, 

That  cometh  forth  the  Spring  to  greet. 

It  must  be  that  thy  little  breast 

Is  warmed  and  cheered  by  love's  sweet  glow; 
That  thoughts  of  tiny  eggs  and  nest 

Call  forth  thy  sweet  song's  rippling  flow. 

Ah  !  robin,  robin,  would  that  I 

Might  fly  with  free  and  careless  wing, 

To  cold  and  storms  I'd  bid  good-bye, 
And  journey  ever  with  the  Spring. 


if) 


A  MAY  MORNING  IN  THE  WOOD. 

All  nature  smiling  fresh  and  glad, 

Bedecked  as  for  a  holiday, 
In  royal  robes  is  richly  clad, 

To  welcome  thee,  sweet  month  of  May. 
The  orchestra  within  the  grove, 

Glad  overtures  is  heard  to  play, 
As  all  the  grand  processions  move, 

Just  at  the  peep  of  coming  day. 

The  lark  mounts  up  with  cheering  song, 

The  linnets  trill  a  roundelay  ; 
Then  all  join  in  a  chorus  strong 

To  celebrate  the  birth  of  day. 
The  squirrel,  creeping  from  his  nest, 

Now  gaily  scampers  o'er  the  ground, 
Or,  measures  space  from  tree  to  tree — 

The  acrobat — with  fearless  bound. 

The  mocking  bird  now  takes  his  seat 

On  topmost  bough  of  tallest  tree, 
And  every  listening  ear  doth  greet 

With  sweetest  notes  of  minstrelsy. 
Then  from  low  branch  of  tree  hard  by 

Comes  floating  a  sweet  voice  of  love  ; 
None  more  heart-touching  'neath  the  sky 

Thau  this  soft  note  of  turtle-dove. 

The  turkeys,  from  their  lofty  perch, 

Call  "  quit,  quit,  quit,"  then  reach  the  ground, 
And  straightway  they  begin  their  search 

Till  some  secluded  spot  is  found. 
Perchance  you  see  some  tardy  owl 

Drowsily  winging  home  to  bed  ; 
He  seems  half  devil  and  half  fowl, 

With  wond'ring  stare  of  horned  head. 

17 


On  spreading  boughs  of  yonder  oak 

Are  pigeons  feeding  on  its  burrs  ; 
The  morn  no  sound  from  them  awoke — 

They're  Nature's  silent  worshipers. 
A  sudden  flash  from  out  the  sky — 

A  crash  !  and  then  a  rumbling  sound  ; 
A  hawk  tells  you  the  reason  why 

The  birds  high  circle,  round  and  round. 

From  every  leaf  and  blade  of  grass 

Depends  a  wealth  of  jewelry, 
Which  flashes  brightly  as  we  pass — 

Night's  gift  to  Morning's  revelry. 
If  you  would  chase  away  dull  care, 

And  Nature  see  in  charming  mood, 
Rise  with  the  lark  and  with  me  share 

Some  pleasant  morning  in  the  wood. 


LILIES. 

Kissed  by  the  sunshine, 

Fed  by  the  dew, 
None  are  so  sweetly  fair, 

Lilies,  as  you. 
Pure  as  the  morning  air, 

When  Summer's  kiss 
Wakens  from  slumbers  pure 

Your  loveliness. 

Bmblems  of  innocence, 

Queens  of  the  field, 
Fragrance  no  other  flowers 

Like  yours  can  yield. 
All  that  is  pure  and  fair, 

In  all  the  earth, 
The  gods  have  given  you, 

Sweet  flowers,  at  birth. 


18 


AN   ADMONITION. 


When  next  I  meet  you  at  the  club, 

On  trout  to  dine, 

Pray  do  not  give  my  faith  the  rub, 
For  as  fish  swim  and  are  good  grub, 

When  flanked  with  wine, 
It  cannot  stand  to  hear  about 
Thy  wondrous  skill  in  luring  trout 

With  rod  and  line. 

Now  mark  it,  friend,  I  do  not  say 

Because,  forsooth, 

My  faith  some  wavering  may  betray, 
That  you  have  not — in  fact,  alway, 

From  early  youth, 

Been  kind  to  her — aye,  kept  your  word 
Bright  as  a  warrior's  gleaming  sword, 

Defending  Truth  ! 

But,  pardon  me,  if  it  seems  bold 

In  me  to  ask  : 

Do  others'  faith  lay  firmly  hold 
Upon  this  tale  when  it  you've  told? 

And  do  they  bask 

Beneath  that  self-complacent  smile  ? 
And  does  it  every  doubt  beguile — 

A  perfect  mask  ? 

You  "  cast,"  you  say,  full  forty  feet, 

And  lured  a  "  rise  " 
Just  where  the  alder  bushes  meet 
The  waters  ;  in  that  cool  retreat 

Where  shadows  lie 
Upon  the  stream  and  still  its  roar, 
Beneath  a  giant  sycamore, 

Which  towers  the  sky  ? 

19 


AN   ADMONITION. 

Your  "catch,"  you  say,  was  seven  pound, 

And  two  foot  three  ? 
Well,  well,  it  must  be  holy  ground 
Where  such  enormous  trout  are  found. 

The  Banyan  tree 
No  greater  gift  could  e'er  confer 
Upon  the  heathen  wrorshiper, 

Than  this  to  me. 

Direct  me  to  this  sycamore, 

I  pray  thee,  friend, 
That  my  poor  faith  you  may  restore, 
I  truthful  deem  you  as  of  yore, 

And  no  more  lend 

An  ear  to  doubt,  whene'er  you  speak  ; 
Be  henceforth  strong,  as  now  I'm  weak, 

Unto  the  end. 

The  oily  lines  you  love  to  use 

No  doubt  are  fine, 
But  even  oil  you  may  abuse  ; 
Oiled  lines  of  speech  can  but  amuse, 

For'  false  design 

Reveals  itself  through  every  word, 
And  every  oily  tone  that's  heard 

Is  falsehood's  sign. 

So  when  you  meet  me  next,  my  friend, 

I  truly  wish 

You  graciously  would  strive  to  lend, 
Your  powers  all  thought  to  kindly  tend 

Away  from  fish  ; 
I  seriously  bewail  your  fate, 
You  lie  so  easily  of  late 

When  trout's  our  dish  ! 


20 


THE   WINDING  EEL. 

Ho,  for  the  mountains  green,  that  render 

The  crystal  streams  with  their  snowy  foam, 
Which  dash  'ueath  the  sunlight's  golden  splendor, 

Where  the  "cut-throat  "  sports  in  its  liquid  home. 
Where  Peace  like  a  spirit  of  comfort  dwelling, 

O'er  the  troubled  souls  of  the  weary  steal, 
The  charms  of  life  to  the  heart  revealing — 

Ho,  for  the  banks  of  the  winding  Eel  ! 

Where  the  blue  skies  arch  the  redwood's  columns, 

That  shelter  the  doe  and  her  spotted  fawn  ; 
Where  the  crickets  chirp,  when  the  gloaming  solemns 

The  restful  hours  from  the  eve  'til  dawn. 
Where  life's  elixirs  and  rich  ozone, 

Distilled  by  the  pines,  through  the  senses  steal 
On  every  wind  of  the  mountains  blown  — 

Ho,  for  the  banks  of  the  winding  Eel ! 

Ho,  for  a  day  of  rest  in  the  mountains, 

Away  from  the  noise  of  the  busy  crowd  ; 
Where  voice  of  birds,  of  streams,  and  fountains 

Alone  break  the  hush  of  Nature's  shroud. 
There  by  the  banks  of  the  river,  flowing, 

To  live  again  with  the  rod  and  reel ; 
The  heart  and  cheek  with  pleasure  glowing — 

Ho,  for  the  banks  of  the  winding  Eel ! 

A  camp  in  the  glen,  where  the  tall  pines  whisper, 

When  touched  by  the  wings  of  the  morning  winds, 
And  murmur  sweetly  a  magical  vesper, 

When  day  in  the  westward  slowly  declines. 
There  days  are  pleasure  and  nights  are  peace, 

Where  joys  of  freedom  the  soul  may  feel, 
And  every  trouble  and  care  shall  cease — 

Ho,  for  the  banks  of  the  winding  Eel  ! 


21 


A   NIGHT  IN  CAMP. 


On  the  mountain's  side  where  the  redwoods,  growing 

Like  columns,  appear  to  support  the  sky  ; 
Where  crystal  streams  are  forever  flowing, 

And  Grandeur  sits  sponsor  to  Beauty  nigh  ; 
Where  Nature  tells  her  grandest  story, 

And  lights  the  past  with  her  magic  lamp, 
Flooding  the  scene  in  a  blaze  of  glory, 

We  made  our  camp. 


In  a  lovely  dell,  where  the  pines  lean  over 

To  catch  the  note  of  the  streamlet's  song — 
That  minstrel  bard  and  mountain  rover, 

Which  tireless  sings  for  the  mountain  throng. 
There,  where  the  daylight  first  is  sleeping, 

And  rest  speaks  peace  to  the  heart's  desire, 
When  the  Gheber's  god  to  the  West  was  creeping, 

We  lit  our  fire. 


No  lamp  had  we,  save  the  camp-fire  glowing, 

No  need — for  Nature  supplied  us  all ; 
The  lamps  of  Heaven,  their  light  bestowing, 

Shone  through  the  curtain  which  Night  let  fall. 
Night — so  beautiful,  weird  and  solemn, 

Silent — yet  list  to  the  undertone  ! 
Unbroken,  save  the  glowing  column 

By  camp-fire  thrown. 


How  wierdly  sweet  are  the  mystic  voices 

Which  throng  and  whisper  amid  the  pines, 
As  sweet  Nature  silently  rejoices 

That  Night  on  her  bosom  now  reclines. 
We  lay  us  down  to  a  peaceful  slumber, 

But  Beauty  uncurtains  full  oft  the  eye, 
As  Naiads  dance  to  the  measured  number 

Of  crickets'  cry. 


A  NIGHT  IN   CAMP 


THE   TRUTHFUL  ANGLER. 

The  coyotes  howl  from  the  shrouded  hollow, 

The  night-owls  hoot  from  the  trees  near  by, 
While  breezes  quickly  each  other  follow, 

From  woodland  waking  a  mournful  sigh. 
The  sight  grows  dim,  on  the  ear  the  drumming 

Of  woodland  calls  now  faintly  creep, 
A  low  refrain  as  of  fairies  humming — 

We  dream  and  sleep. 

The  morning  wakes — an  ashen  finger 

Plucks  from  the  eastward  a  glowing  star ; 
The  shadows  yet  in  the  gulches  linger, 

But  Night  has  fled  from  the  hills  afar. 
The  blue  jays  call,  the  robins  twitter, 

The  gray  squirrel  barks  from  across  the  way  ; 
The  pearls  of  mist  on  the  tree  tops  glitter — 

Behold,  'tis  day. 


THE   TRUTHFUL    ANGLER. 

A  "rainbow"  treasure  in  the  stream, 
Rose  cautiously;  my  fondest  dream 
Ne'er  pictured  trout  with  brighter  gleam 

Of  beauty  rare; 
He  for  my  presence  did  not  seem 

A  fig  to  care. 

Slowly  he  swam  up  to  my  fly, 
And  looked  it  o'er  with  careful  eye. 
I  trembled,  I  will  not  deny, 

With  angler's  chill, 
To  see  him  drawing  still  more  nigh 

With  studied  will. 

He  paused  and  slowly  waved  a  fin, 
The  liquid  mirror  just  within. 
Tempting  as  my  besetting  sin 

He  now  appeared; 
Would  he  defeat  my  hope  to  win? 

I  greatly  feared. 


THE   TRUTHFUL   ANGLER. 

A  moth  then  fell  upon  the  wave; 
One  flirt  the  finny  gamester  gave, 
The  morsel  caught,  then  sank  to  lave 

Deep  in  the  pool. 
The  words  I  said  no  soul  would  save, 

Nor  keep  it  cool. 

Ho,  ho!  Sir  Trout,  I  thought,  I'll  see 
If  that's  the  game  you  play  with  me, 
I'll  wily,  as  you're  wary,  be, 

And  so  I  straight- 
Way  found  a  moth  conveniently 

To  use  for  bait. 

With  cautious  skill  I  cast  my  lure, 
Feeling  I'd  tempt  the  "beauty"  sure. 
I  had  no  waiting  to  endure, 

For,  quick  as  thought, 
The  trout,  the  insect  to  secure, 

Had  struck  and  caught. 

He  was  so  large,  this  famous  trout, 

That  as  I  speak  I  fear  a  doubt 

In  strangers'  minds  may  rise,  about 

His  weight  and  size; 
Fully  two  feet,  from  tail  to  snout, 

Was  this  grand  prize. 

I  speak  the  truth  (  God  save  my  soul!  ) 
He  bent  full  double  my  light  pole 
And  lashed  the  waters  of  that  hole 

To  foam  and  spray; 
Just  as  I  thought  I'd  got  control 

He  broke  away! 

Now  to  complete  this  truthful  tale, 

To  speak  aught  else  my  heart  would  fail, 

I  did  not  swear  and  rave  or  wail. 

Devoutly  then 
I  simply  whispered  to  the  gale: 

Amen!  amen! 


24 


THE   SUPREME   MOMENT. 


There  are  moments,  to  the  sportsman, 

When  the  glow  of  pleasure  thrills 
Every  nerve  within  his  being, 

And  forgotten  are  all  ills. 
It  is  when  the  sound  that's  loudest 

Is  the  beating  of  his  heart, 
And  he  fears  his  faintest  breathing 

Will  his  noble  quarry  start. 

Creeping  through  the  rubus  tangles, 

Lying  low  'mid  grass  or  fern, 
Silently  with  caution  moving, 

Whilst  his  nerves  with  longing  burn 
When  he  feels  defeat  or  vict'ry 

On  his  highest  skill  depends, 
In  the  touching  of  the  trigger, 

Which  anticipation  ends. 

Whether  on  the  plains  or  marshes, 

In  the  fields  or  mountains  wild, 
He  becomes  a  changed  new  being, 

Nature's  worshiper  and  child. 
There  his  every  sense  is  pitted 

'Gainst  a  foe  of  worthy  steel, 
Whether  wielding  gun  or  rifle, 

Or  the  tempered  rod  and  reel. 

There  is  something  in  one's  nature, 

Since  the  day  of  Adam's  fall, 
Which  finds  pleasure  in  the  moment 

Of  the  win-or-lose-it-all. 
Who  of  all  the  sportsmen,  truly, 

WTould  not  half  their  crowning  give 
For  the  pleasures  which  bejewel 

Every  moment  we  thus  live? 


THE   FIRST   DAY   OF   THE   SEASON. 
I. 

LETTER  FROM  MR.  TWELVEBORE  TO  MR.  SIXTEENGAUGE. 

"  SAN  FRANCISCO,  Saturday. 

"Your  kind  invitation,  with  some  other  half  score, 
Lies  open  before  me.     It  troubles  me  sore 
At  not  being  able  to  accept  of  them  all. 
If  convenient  the  dates,  I  could  shoot  all  the  fall! 
It's  too  bad,  confound  it!  but  then  I  suppose 
Some  thorns  there  must  be  on  the  bush  of  each  rose. 
I  hope  you'll  feel  flattered,  for  yours  I  accept, 
With  a  joy  that  leaves  all  of  the  others  unwept; 
Though,  of  course,  I  must  write  in  response  to  each  one 
(  God  forgive  me  for  lying  when  that  task  is  done! ) 
And  say  to  them  all,  '  I  am  sorry,  yes,  quite 
Sorry  ( though  filled  with  unmeasured  delight! ) 
That  a  prior  engagement  (that  lie's  done  before! 
I'll  use  it,  by  Jove!  for  this  scant  dozen  more) 
Prevents  an  acceptance.'     Then  wind  up  my  wail 
By  wishing  them  'luck'  on  their  first  hunt  for  quail. 
I'll  be  up  on  Friday,  the  earliest  train 
Will  carry  me,  sure,  through  the  sunshine  or  rain; 
Our  footsteps  must  press  on  the  'season's'  threshold, 
Be  skies  clear  or  cloudy,  the  winds  warm  or  cold. 
My  setter,  '  high  class '  he  is  called,  I  believe, 

Is  too blue-blooded.     He  will  not  retrieve. 

So  I'll  have  to  fall  back  again  on  old  Joe, 
The  Gordon,  whom  some  have  affirmed  was  too  slow, 
But  I've  found  him  ready  and  staunch  to  the  last; 
If  you  keep  up  all  day  you'll  agree  he  is  fast. 
If  the  birds  are  one-half  as  thick  as  they  say, 
We'll  have  glorious  shooting  one  week  from  to-day. 
Everybody  is  going,  there'll  be  quite  a  throng, 
Until  then,  believe  me,  your  friend.     Now  'so  long;' 
I  must  go  and  get  ready. 

Please  make 

To  your  wife  my  respects. 

Sincerely, 

TWELVEBORE.. 
I'll  break 
This  off  here." 

26 


THE    FIRST  DAY    OF   THE    SEASON. 
II. 

After  posting  this  letter,  old  MR.  TwEiA'EBORE 

Lit  his  "briar-root,"  a  thing  he  had  oft  done  before. 

As  the  blue  wreaths  curled  upwards  he  pleasantly  smiled. 

Which  certified  clearly  that  all  cares  were  beguiled, 

Or,  at  least,  were  displaced  for  the  moment.     Alas! 

That  cares  are  immortal — but  we'll  let  that  pass. 

"Egad!  this  is  lucky,  just  think  of  it  now, 

I'm  in  for  some  shooting.     I  must  not  allow 

My  friend,  SixTEENGAUGE,  any  leaway,  to  brag 

About  bringing  of  feathers  the  most  to  the  bag. 

I  must  see  to  my  weapon,  and  load  up  my  shells 

With  shot  that  on  quail  most  effectively  tells. 

My  skill  in  wing-shooting  I  haven't  forgot, 

As  for  cobwebs  of  age,  of  course,  that  is  'rot;' 

I'll  prove  it  so,  drat  me,  and  I'll  let  him  see 

That  strabismus  has  not  laid  its  hold  upon  me, 

Or  aught  that  can  hinder  my  shooting. 

Let's  see— 

'  The  cover,'  he  writes,  '  is  as  good  as  can  be 

Along  the  arroyos  leading  back  from  the  sea. 

That  the  quail  are  quite  thick,  indeed  'tis  believed 

That  on  this  point  no  sportsman  need  e'er  be  deceived. 

And  the  fields  so  inviting,  they  could  not  be  more 

To  the  heart  of  a  sportsman.'     I've  heard  that  before, 

And  the  fact  I'll  not  question.     All  men,  I  believe, 

Exchange  Faith  for  Hope  themselves  to  deceive 

In  all  things,  perchance,  where  Truth,  if  made  known, 

Their  fond  cherished  idols  would  dash  from  their  throne."1 


III. 

How  sweet  are  the  musings  we  ever  may  find 
In  anticipation,  provided,  the  kind 

Are  akin  to  the  sportsman's.     What  sweet  pleasures  he 
May  call  up  by  reflection.     The  land  and  the  sea 
Pour  out  for  him  freely  their  jewels  of  wealth, 
Crowning  all  with  the  priceless  boon  of  good  health. 
The  sights  that  he  sees  to  the  vision  are  fair; 
The  air  that  he  breathes  is  a  poison  to  care; 

27 


QUEEN   OF   THE    HILLS. 

'The  tramps  that  he  takes  make  his  blood  fresh  and  pure, 
And  give  to  his  system  the  strength  to  endure. 
It  oft  has  been  proven  that  this  line  of  sport 
Refines  soul  and  body  in  Nature's  retort. 
Then  mark  the  time,  sportsmen,  one  week  from  to-day, 
From  the  office  and  counter  you  all  may  away 
To  the  broad,  open  valley  or  deep,  narrow  vale, 
Jn  pursuit  of  the  gamy  and  swift-flying  quail. 


QUEEN   OF   THE   HILLS. 

Hail,  spirit  of  true  poesy,  divine! 
The  whirling  reel,  the  floating  gossamer  line! 
Upon  the  mountain  lake  or  foaming  stream, 
Where  golden  kisses  of  the  sunlight  gleam, 
With  graceful  stroke  the  tempting  lure  to  fling, 
Flecking  the  waters  with  their  coloring, 
Are  subjects  fit  for  breathings  of  thy  grace, 
For  Beauty  there  reveals  her  charming  face. 

The  violets  of  the  hillside  are  her  eyes, 

Which  to  the  azured  heavens  send  replies, 

While  o'er  her  cheeks  the  warm  rose-blushes  steal, 

And  trailing  vine  and  nodding  fern  reveal 

The  sweet  enchantment  of  her  presence  rare; 

For  naught  of  earth  can  with  this  Queen  compare, 

For  every  charm  and  grace  to  her  are  lent 

By  reason  of  her  sweet  environment. 

A  cord  of  silver  is  the  foaming  stream, 

Which  winds  from  mountain  top  with  flashing  gleam, 

Lacing  the  vestment  of  her  bosom  pure, 

Holding  the  grass  and  moss  and  fern  secure, 

Singing,  the  while,  a  cadence  soft  and  low, 

Down  to  the  sea  from  regal  crest  of  snow, 

Kissing  the  royal  redwoods  as  they  rest — 

A  boutonniere  upon  her  lovely  breast. 


28 


THE 


OF   THE   REEL. 


There  is  music  in  the  woodland 

When  the  matin  breezes  blow 
Through  the  forest  trees  that  shadow 

The  fresh  river's  rippling  flow; 
Where  the  golden  sunbeams  softly 

Through  the  leafy  branches  steal, 
And  the  angler's  ear  is  gladened 

By  the  whirring  of  the  reel. 


Do  you  love  the  mountain  valleys? 

Do  you  love  afar  to  roam, 
Where  on  rocks  the  mountain  river 

Beats  its  wavelets  into  foam? 
Come  with  me  then  in  the  morning, 

With  your  rod  and  boots  and  creel, 
And  we'll  angle  for  the  artists 

That  make  music  on  the  reel. 


29 


BEAUTIES   OF    NATURE. 

Up  amid  the  peaks  that  glisten 

With  eternal  robes  of  snow, 
Which,  kissed  by  warm  sun,  furnish 

Life  to  shrub  and  flower  below; 
W7here  its  waters  laugh  and  gambol, 

Shouting  loud  peel  after  peel, 
We  will  wait,  and  watch,  and  listen 

For  the  music  of  the  reel. 

There  are  players,  skilled  and  finished, 

In  the  art  of  music's  school, 
But  none  can  play  the  instrument 

Of  the  tribe  within  the  pool. 
Cast  you  flies  upon  the  waters, 

If  the  pleasure  you  would  feel 
Which  is  wakened  by  the  music 

Flowing  from  the  spinning  reel. 

Now  the  winds,  low  through  the  branches, 

With  slow  wingings  softly  steal, 
And  the  striking  of  the  artist 

Now  within  the  pool  you  feel. 
Gently  waken  now,  as  echoes, 

The  soft  touches  of  the  breeze, 
And  the  artist  in  the  river 

Strikes  upon  the  piercing  keys. 

How  the  music  hums  and  quavers! 

Oh!  the  joyous  thrill  you  feel, 
As,  awakened  from  its  slumbers, 

Sings  with  glee  the  whirling  reel! 
Joys  there  may  be  that  will  equal 

Those,  which  thus,  we  all  may  feel, 
But  to  me  there's  none  that's  better 

Than  the  music  of  the  reel. 


BEAUTIES  OF    NATURE. 

There  is  no  beauty  like  the  rose; 

The  lily,  oh,  how  passing  fair! 
The  violet  all  sweetness  knows; 

The  mountain  brook  has  not  a  care. 


THE   BURNING   OF   MT.   TAMALPAIS. 


All  over  the  mountain,  the  seasons, 

With  Time's  fleeting  shuttle  of  hours, 
Had  woven  a  robing  of  beauty, 

By  aid  of  the  sunshine  and  showers. 
The  grasses  which  covered  the  valleys, 

The  bright  flowers  which  bloomed  in  the  glen, 
A  paradise  formed  in  the  woodlands, 

Secure  from  the  presence  of  men. 

Here  grasses  and  flowers  and  fern  leaves, 

Rich  mosses  and  wild  vines  that  run 
Out  from  the  cool  shaded  places, 

To  drink  in  the  light  of  the  sun, 
Displayed  the  fine  skill  of  the  artist, 

Whose  rich,  indestructible  mine 
Yields  patterns  and  colors  unnumbered; 

Perfection  in  work  and  design! 

Rich  forests  of  pine  and  of  cedar, 

Clothed  all  of  the  gorges  with  green, 
While  here  and  there  oak  leaves  of  scarlet, 

With  gold  of  the  aspen  were  seen. 
The  smilings  of  Summer  had  ripened 

The  grasses  which  grew  in  the  vales; 
Dry  twigs  and  dead  branches  had  fallen 

Where  hurled  by  the  strength  of  the  gales. 

All  over  the  old  rugged  mountain, 

A  dream  of  security  lay; 
The  waves  sang  a  song  of  rejoicing, 

The  sky  was  unclouded  that  day. 
When  down  on  the  mountain  a  serpent 

Crept  silently  out  from  the  dell; 
Its  writhing  form  hissing  and  growing; 

Imbued  with  the  spirit  of  hell. 


THE    BURNING    OF    MT.   TAMAI.PAIS. 

This  serpent  of  flame,  in  its  anger, 

Fanned  fierce  by  the  breath  of  the  wind,. 
Swept  up  through  the  valleys  and  gorges; 

About  every  object  entwined, 
Clasped  rude  the  fair  rose  in  its  splendor, 

Which  gladdened  the  eye  with  its  bloom;; 
One  touch,  and  its  beauty  was  ashes, 

One  breath,  and  the  air  was  its  tomb! 

The  demons  of  fire  full  of  madness 

Swept  on  with  white  heat  in  their  flame;. 
Unknown  was  the  spirit  of  Pity, 

And  Mercy?     They  knew  not  the  name! 
The  song  birds  grew  suddenly  silent, 

As  up  from  the  valleys  below 
Was  wafted  the  roar  of  the  conflict, 

Beneath  the  black  flag  of  the  foe. 

The  wild  stag  afar  the  flame  scented; 

Sprang  up  from  the  carpet  of  green, 
And  whistled  a  challenge,  defiant, 

To  the  foe  which  as  yet  was  unseen. 
The  startled  doe  tremblingly  followed, 

The  spotted  fawn  close  by  her  side; 
Ye  gods!  what  a  beautiful  picture, 

As  over  the  mountain  they  glide! 

The  mountain,  denuded  of  beauty, 

Now  stands  as  a  great  blackened  tower;. 
A  symbol  alone  in  its  sadness, 

Of  sturdy,  invincible  power. 
The  future  is  brightened  with  promise, 

The  sunshine,  the  mists,  and  the  rain, 
Will  woo  into  life  brighter  beauties, 

Than  those  by  fire  demons  slain. 

All  men  are  but  twigs  and  crude  branches, 

The  source  of  the  plant  is  unseen; 
Aye,  so  is  the  fruit  —  e'en  the  blossom 

Is  yet  but  suggested,  I  ween. 
What  lies  in  the  new  life,  I  wonder, 

The  life  which  the  future  will  bring? 
What  thoughts  will  then  thrill  to  emotion,. 

What  songs  will  the  future  lips  sing? 

32 


CALIFORNIA'S  OLD  YEAR. 

HAIL   AND   FAREWELL. 

Do  you  hear  those  feeble  footsteps, 

As  the  Old  Man  totters  by? 
Do  you  hear  his  labored  breathing 

And  his  melancholy  sigh? 
'Tis  the  Old  Year  slowly  dying, 

His  remaining  hours  are  few; 
For  him  now  the  winds  are  sighing: 

Good-bye,  1892. 

Listen!  the  blue-bells  are  ringing, 

And  the  lilies  blow  their  horn; 
Listen!  the  wild  birds  are  singing, 

For  another  year  is  born! 
The  fresh  grasses  grow  more  greenly, 

Nature  sounds  a  jubilee, 
And  the  blue  skies  smile  serenely: 

Welcome,  1893  ! 


CALIFORNIA'S  OLD   YEAR. 

The  Old  Year  dies  to-night! 
Elsewhere,  the  robe  of  snowy  white; 
FJsewhere,  the  parian  wreath  and  crown 
The  heavens  let  fall  so  lightly  down; 
But  here,  beside  his  bed  of  death, 
Is  perfumed  breath. 

The  hills  are  bright,  and  sweet  the  air, 
The  flowers  are  springing  everywhere; 
The  dear  Old  Year  will  find  a  tomb 
Beneath  fresh  grass  and  banks  of  bloom 
His  form  the  earth  will  sweetly  fold 
In  green  and  gold. 


33 


THE   AUTOGRAPH   OF   GOD. 

The  day  was  Summer's.     All  about  me  rose 
The  terraced  peaks  and  domes  of  mountains  grand. 
The  rushing  river  loudly  roared  and  beat 
Its  crystal  waters  into  milk-white  foam, 
Flinging  them  aloft  in  sparkling  fountains 
That,  in  sun  or  shade,  revealed  a  beauty 
All  their  own.     I  clambered  along  its  banks, 
Now  the  great  mountains  closed  on  either  hand, 
With  but  the  river's  foaming  line  between, 
While  from  the  mountains'  steep  and  rugged  walls, 
Set  in  the  lofty  niches,  here  and  there, 
A  stately  pine  or  twisted  cedar  grew, 
Unvisited,  save  by  the  fearless  birds, 
Where,  unmolested,  they  could  find  a  home, 
Which  Nature  had  reserved  for  them  alone. 
Beyond,  the  mountains  wavered  back  apace, 
And  there  was  set  a  little  verdured  glen, 
Grass-covered,  and  grown  o'er  with  lordly  pines, 
While,  on  the  other  hand,  the  river's  course, 
Half-circling,  beat  against  a  mighty  wall 
Which  rose  until  it  towered  the  very  skies, 
A  veritable  king  and  sentinel  ! 

The  river  laughed  and  leaped  in  torrents  wild, 

Winding  its  foaming  form  adown  the  gorge. 

From  sky-land,  where  the  snows  and  clouds  conjoined, 

Gave  to  it  life  and  whitened  lips  of  song. 

Lo!  as  I  gazed,  there  came  above  its  fount 

A  mountain  of  the  sky,  which  rose  in  haste 

And  spread  above  the  stream  its  darkened  form. 

The  low  winds,  whispering  softly  through  the  pines 

Now  grew  to  louder  tones,  swaying  the  boughs 

Until  they  lashed  and  intertwined  their  forms, 

Brushing  their  spiral  cones  and  needles  green 

From  off  their  stems,  and  hurling  them  in  showers 

Upon  the  foaming  river  and  the  green, 

With  which  the  glen  was  carpeted. 

The  organ  of  the  sky  with  grandeur  rolled 

34 


EVENING    IN    THE    HILIvS. 

In  thrilling  tones  its  music  down  the  gorge, 

And  then  across  the  bosom  of  the  cloud 

The  brilliant  lightning  traced  its  crooked  way. 

When,  like  a  dazzling  sheet  of  pearls,  the  rain 

Unrolled  from  cloud  to  peak,  a  brilliant  scroll, 

On  which,  in  colors  indescribable, 

Appeared,  written  with  golden  pencil  of  the  sun, 

The  fresh  and  dazzling  autograph  of  God! 


EVENING   IN   THE   HILLS.  . 

Softly  Night's  mantle  drapes  the  distant  hills 
And  lies  in  darker  folds  within  the  vales  ; 

Like  silver  cords  the  foaming  mountain  rills 
In  muffled  voicings  tell  the  woodland  tales. 

The  crimson  pencil  of  the  dying  sun 

Paints  weirdly  all  the  mountain  tops  and  sky  ; 
Then  bids  good-bye  to  peaks,  one  after  one, 

Which  slowly  fade  from  sight  of  mortal  eye. 

The  tall  pines  on  the  lofty  mountain  side 
Blend  slowly  in  one  solid  phalanx  dark  ; 

The  shadows  from  about  still  nearer  glide 

And  halt  but  at  the  camp-fire's  blazing  mark. 

Strange  voices  fill  the  earth  and  all  the  air ; 

Night's  children  all  about  us  dance  and  sing  ; 
Their  Queen  is  Conqueror  !  they  all  declare, 

More  potent  than  the  day's  most  gorgeous  King. 


THE   HONEST  WORSHIPER. 

Man  dwelling  with  his  fellowmen 
Would  honor  on  himself  confer; 

Alone  with  Nature  —  only  then 
Is  he  an  honest  worshiper. 


35 


MY  HARP. 

While  wand'ring  about  in  the  meadow  one  morning, 

A  harp,  long  neglected,  by  chance  there  I  found; 
Attuned  were  its  strings,  which  awoke  without  warning, 

And  lo,  from  them  came  a  sweet  musical  sound! 
Enchanted  I  listened,  the  music  increasing, 

And  oh,  what  a  joy  to  my  heart  it  still  brings, 
As  ever  rich  melody  flows  without  ceasing, 

As  wander  soft  winds  o'er  its  magical  strings. 

A  lark,  mounting  high  in  the  blue  sky,  was  singing 

In  rythmical  measures,  clear,  fervent  and  strong. 
The  notes  from  its  beak,  while  it  upward  was  winging, 

Flowed  back  in  a  beautiful  ripple  of  song. 
The  cords  of  the  harp  were  in  tune  with  the  wild  bird, 

And  throbbed  'neath  the  weight  of  a  melody  pure; 
No  song  to  my  heart  like  the  music  I  then  heard — 

In  mem'ry  'twill  live  while  my  life  shall  endure. 

That  beautiful  morn,  oh,  I  ne'er  shall  forget  it, 

The  meadow  with  cowslips  and  violets  sweet; 
The  clear,  silver  brook  winding  peacefully  through  it, 

The  song-bird  which  rose  from  the  grass  'neath  my  feet. 
The  bird  in  the  picture  is  evermore  singing; 

I  feel  the  sweet  breath  of  that  June  morning  blown, 
And  hear  the  rich  notes  of  that  melody  ringing, 

And  know  that  the  harp  which  I  found  was  my  own. 

36 


WINTER    IN    NEW    ENGLAND. 
MUSIC. 

At  early  morn  a  happy,  laughing  child, 

With  notes  of  mirth,  filled  all  the  air  with  song, 
Which  rang  out  with  a  freedom,  careless  —  wild, 

As  Summer  hours  passed  merrily  along. 
All,  all  was  mirth;  no  notes  of  sympathy 

As  from  a  heart  deep-stirred  for  others'  woe 
WTas  heard.     Without  this  strain  of  melody 

The  music  was  morn's  blush  to  day-god's  glow — 
As  slowly  opening  bud  to  flower  full-blown, 

As  tiny  shrub  to  acorn-tree  full  grown. 

The  hours  flew  on;  a  cloud  shut  out  the  sun — 

A  cloud  of  sorrow,  charged  with  bitter  pain; 
A  minor  strain  awoke,  thenceforth  to  run, 

As  sighing  winds  and  softly  murmuring  rain, 
Or,  song-notes  dipped  in  waves  of  human  tears, 

Flowing  from  heart  all  bruised  and  bleeding  —  torn 
By  thorns  which  line  the  path  of  later  years, 

And  weight  of  sorrows  grievous  to  be  borne. 
And  there  was  music  then;  each  note  of  song 

Trembled  with  weight  of  melody  so  sweet 
That  all  who  listened  would  the  strain  prolong, 

And  wished  the  singer  the  sweet  song  repeat. 


WINTER   IN   NEW   ENGLAND. 

Cold  blows  the  wind — a  chilling  blast; 
Dull,  ashen  clouds  the  sky  o'ercast; 
From  North  to  South,  from  East  to  West, 

From  Morn  'til  Night, 
The  storm-king  weaves  o'er  Nature's  breast 

A  robe  of  white. 

From  out  the  dark  and  stormy  cloud, 
Old  Boreas  blows  the  whitening  shroud; 
In  trumpet  blasts,  sharp,  fierce,  and  loud, 

He  rules  the  hour; 
Cold,  cruel,  heartless,  seeming  proud 

To  show  his  pow'r. 

37 


WINTER    IN    NEW    ENGLAND. 

The  "Bees  of  Winter,"  day  and  night, 
Swarm  through  the  air  in  wild  delight; 
A  pleasing,  aye!  enchanting  sight, 

In  coming  down, 
The  vales  to  robe  in  spotless  white — 

The  hills  to  crown. 

The  laughter  of  the  flowing  rills 
No  more  the  air  with  music  fills; 
The  grinding  of  the  water-mills 

No  more  is  heard, 
And  hushed  are  all  the  merry  trills 

Of  woodland  bird. 

The  streams  and  lakes,  from  shore  to  shore, 
Are  spanned  by  seamless  bridges  o'er, 
Polished  and  smooth  as  marble  floor, 

O'er  which  we  glide 
On  bars  of  steel,  above  the  roar 

Of  muffled  tide. 

Soft  parian  wreaths  festoon  the  trees 
With  decorations  all  to  please, 
'Til,  shaken  by  the  passing  breeze, 

Or  kissed  by  sun, 
They  join  the  streamlets,  by  degrees 

Their  course  to  run. 

A  silence  in  the  forest  lies 

And  filleth  all  the  sombre  skies; 

A  universal  death  denies 

All,  save  a  tomb, 
To  every  fond,  sweet,  glad  surprise 

Of  woodland  bloom. 

But  deep  beneath  the  cloak  of  snow, 

Down  in  their  silent  beds  below, 

The  flowers  are  sleeping,  and  we  know 

That  from  this  tomb 
They  soon  will  spring  with  freshened  glow 

Of  life  and  bloom. 


NEW-YEAR  S    MORNING. 

ELUSIVE   SONG. 

At  morn,  at  noon,  at  twilight  tide, 
All  times  and  everywhere, 

Echoes  of  song  about  me  glide 
On  the  delusive  air. 

And  now  and  then  a  note  or  two 
Falls  clearly  on  my  ear, 

Then  dies  away  in  ether  blue, 
And  is  no  longer  here. 

I  try  to  catch  the  merry  notes, 
But  trembling,  as  with  fear, 

A  silence  falls  on  fairy  throats 
Whenever  I  draw  near. 

While  lying  'neath  the  apple  tree, 
In  half  awakened  dream, 

I  hear  the  sweetest  melody 

Floating  on  sunlight's  beam. 


NEW-YEAR'S   MORNING. 

The  purpling  footsteps  of  the  morn 

Now  in  the  East  appear, 
And  herald  that  again  is  born 

Another  glad  New  Year! 

That,  in  the  land  beyond  the  sea, 
The  gods  in  power  awoke, 

And  from  the  vast  eternity 
Another  year  bespoke! 

And  will  Time  never,  never  cease? 

\Vill  evening  follow  morn? 
As  fast  as  one  shall  find  release, 

Another  one  be  born? 

Will  we  poor  midges  of  an  hour  — 
Mere  moths  about  the  flame  — 

Clothed  with  a  little  transient  power, 
Exist  but  in  a  name? 


A    MOUNTAIN    PICTURE. 


I've  a  picture  and  a  poem 

Ever  present  in  my  mind, 
It  has  beauty  and  enchantment 

Only  known  unto  its  kind; 
'Tis  a  picture  in  the  mountains, 

When  the  balmy  breath  of  June, 
'Mid  the  lofty  pines  and  cedars, 

Plays  for  all  a  magic  tune. 


A  blue  lake,  calm  and  placid, 

Typifying  perfect  rest, 
As  it  cradles  in  its  bosom 

The  tall  mountain's  snowy  crest 
From  its  mirror  is  reflected, 

Unto  each  observant  eye, 
Every  cloud  and  bird  that  passes 

O'er  the  bosom  of  the  sky. 


40 


THE   SNOW-PLANT  OF  THE   SIERRAS. 

When  the  early  twilight  shadows 

Fall  upon  this  mountain  lake, 
And  the  sportive  trout,  in  leaping, 

Ripples  on  its  bosom  make, 
Then  I  see  an  angler  gently 

Push  out  slowly  from  the  shore, 
And  go  whipping  of  the  waters 

Where  the  shadows  fold  them  o'er. 

Now  a  trout  has  struck  the  bright  lure, 

And  the  lithe  rod  swerves  and  bends, 
And  the  reel  is  singing  sweetly 

As  the  line  its  freedom  lends — 
And  the  angler,  all  expectant, 

Plays  the  "  beauty  "  with  a  skill 
Which  foreshadows  that  the  ending 

Will  mark  well  a  splendid  "kill." 

Thus  the  picture  ever  haunts  me, 

With  a  beauty  which,  for  aye, 
Holds  enchained  my  brightest  fancy 

By  the  hours  of  night  and  day, 
And  I  wish  that  life  forever 

Could  be  blessed  with  such  a  boon, 
Where  the  trout  are  ever  "  striking  " 

And  the  time  is  always  June. 


THE    SNOW-PLANT   OF    THE   SIERRAS. 

Thou  ruddy  stranger,  who  may  know 

Why  thou  shouldst  bloom  midst  ice  and  snow? 

Ice  proves  to  bloom  a  deadly  foe, 

Is  often  said, 
But  here  thou  bloomest  with  a  glow 

Of  flaming  red! 

Lone,  frigid  flower  of  frost  and  storm, 
'Round  which  the  "  bees  of  winter"  swarm, 
Thou  seemest  ever  bright  and  warm 

Unto  the  e}-e; 
Yet  cold  as  ice  is  thy  red  form, 

Thou  blooming  lie! 


WHAT    IS   POETRY? 

You  ask  me  what  is  poetry? 

'Tis  evening  wind's  soft  tone 
Returning  from  the  deep  blue  sea, 

Where  all  day  it  hath  blown. 

The  crimson  blush  of  fleecy  cloud 

At  kiss  of  morning  light; 
Soft  evening  shades  when  first  the  shroud 

Falls  from  the  hand  of  Night. 

The  gushing  of  the  mountain  rill, 
The  soft  wind's  whisperings 

To  forests  wild,  when  all  is  still 
Save  their  faint  echoings. 

The  murmur  of  the  deep  sea  waves 

Complaining  to  the  shore; 
The  wave  of  grasses  o'er  the  graves 

Of  those  who  are  no  more. 

'Tis  the  bright  crimson  of  the  skies 

Melting  to  purple  hue, 
When  daylight  softly  fades  and  dies 

As  darkness  shades  the  blue. 

It  is  the  rose  without  the  thorn, 

The  joy  without  the  pain; 
The  pleasant,  peaceful  Summer  morn 

After  the  chilling  rain. 

The  song-bird  calling  to  its  mate 

In  forest,  deep  and  wild; 
All  beauties  which  the  soul  elate — 

The  laugh  of  merry  child. 

The  loving  smile  and  tender  tone, 
The  glance  of  woman's  eye, 

Are  truest  poems  ever  known 
Beneath  the  starry  sky. 


EVENING. 

Silence  reigns  supreme  about  us, 
And  the  evening  shadows  creep 

Up  from  hill-environed  valley, 

Where  they  rally, 
To  enshroud  the  rugged  steep, 

And  to  hush  the  woodland  music, 
Ivulling  all  the  birds  to  sleep. 

Off  to  westward,  mark  the  glamour! 

Pink  and  saffron  all  the  sky; 
Hear,  the  gorgeous  day  in  dying, 
Softly  sighing, 

As  the  low  winds  flutter  by, 
Coming  slowly  in  from  seaward, 

In  the  valleys  here  to  lie. 

Watch  the  shadows  as  they  deepen 
'Round  about  the  nearer  hills; 

Mark  the  brooklet's  low-voiced  singing, 

And  the  winging 
Of  the  graceful  whippoorwills, 

As  they  flit  like  restless  spirits 

O'er  the  meadows  and  the  rills. 

See!  the  shining  lamps  of  heaven 

Pierce  the  gloom  with  golden  ray, 

And  the  silv'ry  moonbeams  streaming 

O'er  us  gleaming, 
Chases  all  the  gloom  away, 

Rendering  the  night  more  pleasant 
Than  the  dazzling  hours  of  day. 

Hear  the  chirping  of  the  crickets; 

See  the  fire-fly's  fitful  glow; 
Now  the  gentle  dew  is  falling, 
And  the  calling 

Of  the  katydids  below 
Comes  from  out  the  golden  willows, 

Swaying  gently  to  and  fro. 


43 


THE    RAIN. 

Stretched  upon  the  ferns  and  mosses, 
Sweet  it  is  at  ease  to  rest; 

Night  resistless  is  in  wooing 

And  the  cooing 
Of  her  Naiads'  sweet  request 

Is  o'erpowering,  and  we  slumber, 

By  their  witching  presence  blest. 


THE    RAIN. 


A  sudden  silence  fills  the  air, 

And  then  a  low-voiced  breeze, 

Soft-winged,  steals  across  the  moor 

And  murmurs  through  the  trees. 

To  sheltering  groves  the  song  birds  flee 

At  boom  of  heaven's  artillery. 

The  dark  clouds  from  the  Western  sky 

In  unison  advance. 

The  storm-king  draws  his  glittering  sword- 

A  brilliant,  flashing  lance; 

His  breath  sweeps  o'er  the  wood  and  plain- 

A  veritable  hurricane. 

The  sturdy  oak  sways  'neath  the  blast, 

The  lake  is  lashed  to  foam, 

And,  in  a  wild,  fierce  jubilee, 

Now  rules  the  raging  storm, 

While  o'er  the  woods  and  verdant  plain 

There  falls  o'er  all  the  welcome  rain. 


44 


TO   THE   SPORTSMEN    OF    THE    HILLS. 


I. 

Ye  lovers  of  the  pine-clad  hills  and  lakes, 
Which  mirror  every  line  of  heaven's  face; 
Who  through  the  tangled  copse  of  mountains  trace 
The  royal  game,  whose  magic  presence  makes 
Your  being  tremble  with  a  sweet  desire 
To  win  the  prize — grand  trophy  of  the  chase— 
The  antlered  stag,  with  eyes  a-lit  with  fire; 
Noblest  of  game  beneath  the  rolling  sun! 
Perfection's  grace,  beyond  comparison; 
Proud  as  old  Lucifer,  a  lord  of  kings, 
His  movements  seeming  less  of  feet  than  wings. 
What  grander  theme  for  my  poor  pen  than  he? 
Of  sportsmen's  paradise  the  deity. 


45 


TO    THE    SPORTSMEN    OF   THE 

Yet  not  of  him  alone  I  fain  would  speak; 
Naught  that  exists  but  in  itself  is  weak; 
Of  things  we  love,  one-half  or  more  is  lent 
From  all  things  forming  their  environment. 
The  violet  wye  love  not  half  so  well 
Elsewhere  than  in  its  mossy,  fern-clad  dell, 
Where  dews  bejewel  every  leaf  and  thorn, 
When  golden  sunbeams  paint  the  scene  at  morn. 
The  lily — blowing  from  her  scented  horn 
The  incense  of  the  gods — to  beauty  born, 
Acknowledged  queen  of  all  the  floral  field, 
Her  throne  must  sit,  or  else  the  scepter  yield. 
Each  one  must  on  all  other  things  depend, 
Or,  all  would  be  but  one — beginning,  end. 
Nature  this  law  of  recompense  confers; 
No  king  could  be,  without  his  worshipers. 

Some  are  content  to  learn  from  others'  books, 

But  with  such  wisdom  comes  the  master's  ills; 
The  sportsman  gleans  his  lessons  from  the  brooks, 

And  from  the  everlasting  green-clad  hills. 
Nature  of  all  things  is  the  primal  source; 

Go  to  her  fountain-head  and  wisdom  learn. 
A  torpid  liver,  if  not  something  worse, 

Affects  most  minds  that  from  her  pages  turn. 

He  is  a  free  man  who  himself  sets  free; 
The  basest  slaves  of  all  boast  liberty, 
Yet  never  have  on  earth  their  souls  been  stirred 
By  e'en  the  faintest  meaning  of  that  word. 
For  liberty  and  light  and  truth  are  one — 
The  grandest  trinity  beneath  the  sun; 
And  he  more  near  is  free  from  base  alloy 
Who  can  the  most  of  these  the  most  enjoy. 

Pure  liberty  of  action  and  of  thought 
Are  priceless  gems,  and  ne'er  too  dearly  bought; 
The  hills,  the  plains,  the  lakes,  the  mountains  high, 
Are  Nature's  stores  in  which  these  treasures  lie. 
Would  you  possess  these  matchless  jewels  rare? 
Then  mount  your  steed  and  to  the  hills  repair. 
Hark,  to  the  horn!  for  now  its  cheering  note 
Upon  the  morning  air  in  quavers  float. 
46 


RETROSPECTION. 

II. 

Ho!  for  the  chase,  for  the  royal  chase, 

With  the  music  of  horns  and  hounds; 
On  a  noble  steed  to  take  the  lead 

Of  them  all  on  the  hunting  grounds; 
To  feel  the  blood,  a  rushing  flood, 

Go  bounding,  leaping  through  the  veins, 
And  know  the  field  we  need  not  yield 

While  we  keep  our  grip  on  the  reins. 

Urging  our  steed  to  his  utmost  speed, 

We  sail  like  a  bird  on  the  wing, 
While  the  very  wind  is  left  behind, 

Heavy-winged  with  sounds  that  ring 
Up  from  the  dells,  like  legions  of  bells, 

Swelling  over  the  valleys  and  hills; 
The  echoes  rebound  with  a  double  sound, 

Then  fade  into  musical  trills. 

Hard  on  the  pack  we 'follow  the  track 

Of  the  wild  game  speeding  away; 
Our  noble  steed  increasing  his  speed 

At  each  touch  of  the  spur  or  flay, 
'Till  we  see  the  prize  before  our  eyes, 

For,  behold,  it  is  brought  to  bay, 
And  now  before  us  panting  lies — 

We've  won,  huray!  huray!!  huray!!! 


RETROSPECTION. 

When  weary  and  worn  with  the  rowing 

Against  the  swift  current  of  Time, 
Whose  billows  in  anger  are  showing 

Their  tiger-like  spirit  of  crime — 
In  deep,  sullen  growls  all  about  me 

Are  leaping  with  snarls  upon  deck, 
And  glaring  in  fierceness  they  mock  me, 

And  claim  my  frail  craft  for  a  wreck. 
Yet,  'spite  of  it  all,  I  am  fearless, 

Though  catching  no  gleam  from  the  shore; 
About  me  all  threatening  and  cheerless — 

I  love  to  cease  pulling  the  oar. 

47 


RETROSPECTION. 

To  drift  idly  backward  and  leeward; 

To  lie  again  calmly  at  rest, 
Where  youth's  favored  winds  blowing  seaward 

Awoke  fondest  hopes  in  my  breast; 
Again  through  the  woodlands  and  lea-lands 

To  wander  in  peace  all  alone, 
Or,  down  on  the  bright  golden  sea-sands, 

To  list  to  the  wild  billows  moan; 
To  lie  in  the  meadows  and  smother 

Regrets,  with  the  clover  blooms  sweet, 
Where  often  in  youth,  with  another, 
Love  rendered  our  wand'rings  complete. 

There  again  to  watch  the  kine  nipping 

The  grasses  bejeweled  with  dew, 
The  barn-swallows  gracefully  dipping 

In  the  waves  where  the  pond-lilies  grew; 
To  steal  o'er  the  lawn  'neath  the  arches, 

Where  clambered  the  sweet  blooming  vine, 
With  footsteps  to  zephyr-played  marches, 

While  drinking  of  memory's  wine. 
If  years,  with  their  burden  of  sorrows, 

Do  naught  but  endear  the  fond  past, 
How  sweet  will  be  all  of  the  morrows 

With  old  scenes  preserved  'till  the  last? 

How  painfully  sweet  to  my  vision 

Are  all  the  loved  scenes  of  my  youth; 
I  knew  them  when  every  decision 

\Vas  founded  alone  upon  truth; 
Before  the  foul  dust  of  long  travel 

Had  grimed  its  way  into  my  soul ; 
Before  the  rough  stones  and  hard  gravel 

I'd  trod,  on  the  way  to  the  goal. 
I  love  my  youth's  innocent  viewing, 

Forgetting  the  pain  and  the  tears, 
Which  followed  my  young  life's  undoing  — 

The  rape  of  my  innocent  years. 


48 


NEW-YEAR    REFLECTIONS. 


One  year  older,  one  year  more 

Added  to  those  past  and  gone; 
Climbing  toward  the  second  score, 

What  a  weight  bears  every  one! 
Time  engulfs  the  joy  and  tear, 

Plucks  the  thistle  and  the  rose; 
Knows  no  pity — knows  no  fear — 

As  it  ever  onward  flows. 

Every  morn,  however  bright, 

Is  but  fleeting  as  the  wave — 
Flashes  of  a  passing  light, 

Guiding  travelers  to  the  grave. 
Every  step  wherever  trod, 

Every  pulse  and  every  breath, 
Nears  our  home  beneath  the  sod — 

Urn  of  universal  death. 

Mern'ry  holds  but  pleasures  few, 

Sorrows  with  us  long  remain; 
Joys  fade  like  the  morning  dew, 

Griefs  engender  lingering  pain. 
Thus,  through  shifting  of  the  years, 

Heap  the  burdens  of  distress; 
Fall  more  freely,  Sorrow's  tears, 

Heavier  grows  our  loneliness. 

"  I  am  dying,"  spake  the  year, 

Dim,  uncertain  was  his  sight; 
Trembled  oft  the  saddened  tear, 

As  approached  his  final  night. 
"  I  have  sorrowed,  I  have  joyed, 

I  have  felt  my  bosom  glow 
With  a  warmth  no  fear  alloyed; 

But  now  drifts  alone  the  snow." 


49 


THE    DEATH   OF   SUMMER. 

Curtained  grows  his  failing  eye, 

Faint  and  fainter  comes  his  breath; 
Moans  his  last  despairing  sigh, 

Now  the  Old  Year  meets  his  death. 
Breaks  the  morning  bright  and  clear, 

Fresh  and  joyous,  clear  and  bright — 
Time  appears  all  hearts  to  cheer, 

With  the  blessings  of  delight. 

May  it  be  that  for  us  all, 

When  our  year  of  life  shall  close — 
We  shall  step  out  from  the  pall 

Bright  as  New  Year's  morning  rose; 
This  life  prove  a  training  school, 

Where  the  heart  and  head  are  taught 
Noble  actions,  and  the  rule 

L/earn'd  that  leads  to  higher  thought. 


THE    DEATH    OF   SUMMER. 

Heard  ye  that  sigh 

Go  by? 

It  seemed  to  travel  toward  the  sky. 

Methought  it  said: 
"Lo,  she  is  dead; 

The  power  of  Summer's  life  has  fled 
Dimmed  is  the  lustre  of  her  eye." 

Her  lovely  days 

And  ways 

Die  mid  yonder  sunset  haze; 

Unto  the  sight 

Her  tender  light 

Fading  in  folds  of  Autumn  night, 
A  peaceful  beauty  rare  displays. 

The  East  was  bright 

With  light 

And  in  the  West  retreating  night; 

To  me  they  said: 
"  Weep  for  the  dead, 

The  Autumn  with  the  earth  is  wed, 
Look  and  behold,  we  speak  aright." 


THE    DEATH   OF   SUMMER. 

And  it  was  true, 

There  blew 

More  chilling  winds  than  Summer  knew; 

To  her  their  breath 

Was  instant  death; 

To  me  their  mournful  voices  saith: 
"Her  spirit  fades  with  yonder  blue." 

The  roses  sigh 

And  die; 

Their  leaves  all  torn  and  withered  lie 

Upon  the  ground; 

A  solemn  sound 

Fills  all  the  airy  space  around — 
A  sobbing,  wierd,  heart-touching  cry. 

The  lilies  pray 
To-day: 
"Oh,  let  us  here  no  longer  stay; 

With  Summer's  sun 

Our  work  is  done, 

Our  race  of  life  is  fully  run, 
Oh,  bear  us  to  our  tomb  away." 

The  woodland  choir 

Retire, 

To  sing  no  more  is  their  desire; 
No  cherry  note 
From  feathered  throat 
Upon  the  balmy  air  will  float 

'Till  Summer's  smile  shall  it  inspire. 

Some  morn  divine, 

With  mine, 

I  trust  her  spirit  may  entwine 

And  live  for  aye, 

Where  lustrous  day 

Shall  chase  all  thoughts  of  gloom  away; 
Where  comes  of  death  no  warning  sigh. 


THE    PROPOSAL. 


October,  dear  hazy  old  fellow, 

I  love  your  sun's  golden  beams, 
As  over  the  forest  and  meadow 

His  mellow  light  lazily  streams, 
Throwing  over  the  mountains  a  mantle 

So  mystic,  so  subtle  and  fine 
That  it  adds  a  new  charm  to  all  Nature, 

And  robes  it  in  beauty  divine. 

You  bring  to  my  mind  many  treasures 

From  memory's  hallowed  store; 
They  are  dear,  yet  a  tinge  of  your  sadness 

Makes  them  dearer  a  thousand  times  more: 
For  your  soft  breezes  seem  almost  human, 

As  they  echo  the  sigh  of  my  heart, 
That  the  dearest,  best  love  of  the  human 

Is  formed  here  on  earth  but  to  part. 


I  thank  thee,  dear  old  October, 

For  reviving  those  scenes  of  the  past; 
They  are  part  of  my  soul's  dearest  treasures, 

And  forever  and  ever  shall  last. 
The  waters  of  Leathe  shall  not  o'er  them 

The  waves  of  oblivion  cast; 
They  shall  dwell  fresh  and  green  in  my  mem'ry, 

Forever  present,  yet  past. 

October,  can  you  keep  a  secret? 

Will  you  keep  it  and  not  tell  the  breeze? 
For  he's  such  a  fun-loving  fellow 

He'd  surely  be  telling  the  trees, 
And  the  leaves  would  be  sure  to  o'erhear  it 

And  down  to  the  meadows  they'd  go, 
And  soon  the  meadows  would  be  telling 

Their  beautiful  mantle  of  snow. 


NOVEMBER. 

And  the  snowflake  as  it  mounts  on  the  sunbeam 

To  its  home  far  away  in  the  cloud 
Would  soon  be  telling  the  thunder, 

And  the  thunder  would  echo  it  loud; 
And  the  lightning  would  surely  be  listening, 

And  thus  my  secret  would  steal, 
And  one  flash  of  his  dazzling  brightness 

Would  all  of  my  secret  reveal. 

So,  you'll  keep  it,  won't  you,  October? 

I  know  you'll  be  true  to  the  trust, 
And  tell  only  her,  October, 

Tell  her  only  you  must, 
For  I  know  she  loves  you,  October, 

For  your  loveliness,  not  for  your  name, 
And  for  this  you  may  tell  her,  October, 

I  wish  you  and  I  were  the  same. 

There  now,  go  tell  her  my  secret, 

Tell  her  'tis  not  fancy  but  real, 
And  what  I  have  spoken  is  only 

A  very  small  part  that  I  feel. 
Do  you  pray,  dear  October?  then  let  us  kneel, 

And  of  our  heavenly  Father  request, 
That,  whatever 'her  answer  may  be, 

That  she  may  richly  be  blest. 


NOVEMBER. 

Robed  in  sackcloth  and  in  ashes, 

Is  the  form  of  Nature  now; 
Her  eye  no  more  with  gladness  flashes  — 

Sorrow  sits  upon  her  brow. 

Mournful,  weary,  heavy-hearted; 

She  fills  the  air  with  tender  sighs  — 
Fills  all  the  air  with  tears  and  sighs  — 

Summer's  glory  is  departed, 

With  yonder  azure  sunset  dies. 

Deep  gloom  and  sadness  covers  all, 

The  fields  and  flowers  are  crisp  and  sear; 

The  forest  leaves  now  fade  and  fall, 
While  feeble  grows  the  dying  year. 


TO    THE    MOURNING    DOVE. 

What  renders  thee  so  desolate? 

Why  these  sad  notes,  so  soft  and  low? 
Has  cruel,  unrelenting  fate 
Decreed  it  shall  be  ever  so; 
Through  light  and  shade 
Thy  song  be  made 
Of  notes  that  only  speak  of  woe? 

Why  this  refrain,  this  sad  lament? 

Art  thou  too  weighted  down  with  sin, 
And  hast  become  a  penitent, 

Hoping  some  heaven  to  enter  in? 
By  price  of  tears 
Called  out  by  fears 
Hope  thou  God's  favor,  too,  to  win? 

By  what  arch  sin  from  their  first  state 

Was  thy  race  from  their  Eden  hurled, 
And  doomed  to  roam  disconsolate 

O'er  this  death-stricken,  dreary  world? 
Doth  thy  sweet  breast 
Hope  for  a  rest 
Where  Summer  skies  are  e'er  unfurled? 


THE    BURIAL   OF   SUMMER. 

A  world  wherein  no  notes  of  woe 

Are  ever  heard,  but  music  sweet 
As  chime  of  bells  or  brooklet's  flow 
Doth  ears  enchanted  ever  greet  ? 
Loved  bird  below, 
Beyond  the  flow 
Of  death's  dark  stream,  I  trust,  we'll  meet. 


THE    BURIAL    OF    SUMMER. 

Autumn  has  come  with  its  funeral  train, 

Bearing  the  corpse  of  sweet  Summer  along, 

While  the  mourning  clouds  great  tear-drops  rain, 
And  the  winds  are  piping  a  mournful  song. 

The  King  from  the  Northland  sent  out  his  hosts, 
Lovely  Summer  to  conquer  and  slay; 

Silent  they  came  as  an  army  of  ghosts, 
Traveling  only  by  night  all  the  way. 

As  Summer  lay  sleeping,  they  poisoned  her  breath 
With  the  crystaline  poisons  they  bear; 

Then  clammy  and  cold  lay  sweet  Summer  in  death, 
Terror-chilled  was  the  grief-stricken  air. 

The  roses  for  love  of  her  smiles  quickly  died, 
The  fair  lilies  in  grief  bowed  their  heads; 

The  velvety  grasses  are  withered  and  dried 

Where  the  life-chilling  breath  o'er  them  spreads. 

Alas!  alas!  that  sweet  Summer  should  die. 

That  her  warm,  rosy  lips  should  grow  cold, 
That  curtained  should  be  her  bright,  beaming  eye, 

Her  rich  garments  be  flecked  with  the  mold. 

That  all  her  bright  smiles  should  fade  in  a  day, 

Her  sweet  story  of  love  be  untold, — 
Her  laughter  should  die  in  sobbings  away 

With  the  damp  chilling  winds  of  the  wold. 


55 


AMID  GOD'S  GREATER  THOUGHTS. 


I  stood  upon  the  mountain's  crest, 
And  looked  across  the  vales, 

And  saw  the  rivers  rushing  down 
Their  steep  and  winding  trails. 

Foaming  and  leaping  from  the  peaks, 

All  covered  o'er  with  snow; 
Kissed  by  the  warmth  of  Summer's  breath 

Into  a  crystal  flow. 

Some  placid  lakes  like  silver  shone, 

Beneath  the  evening  sun, 
And  some  were  like  to  flaming  fire; 

A  beauty,  every  one! 

The  verdured  valleys  far  below, 

Were  wrapped  in  gloaming  deeps, 

Though  sunshine  gilded  all  the  spires, 
And  bathed  in  light  the  steeps. 

And  thus,  thought  I,  it  is  in  life, 
For  all  who  truth  would  know; 

All,  all  must  climb  from  out  the  depths — 
The  shadows  lie  below! 


Climb  up  the  steep  and  rocky  way, 

Climb  on  and  up,  and  learn, 
From  these  grand,  towering  thoughts  of  God, 

All  littleness  to  spurn. 


TOMB  OF  HELEN  HUNT  JACKSON. 

Our  daughter  who  stood  on  the  brow  of  Parnassus, 

And  flung  to  the  world  her  bright  jewels  of  song, 
Hath  lain  down  her  harp,  and  no  more  will  enchant  us, 

With  the  notes  of  her  music  so  fervent  and  strong; 
No  more  will  the  scent  of  her  heart's  ardent  roses, 

Be  thrown  on  the  mountain  air,  careless  and  wild, 
For  here  on  its  bosom  now  sweetly  reposes 

All  that  was  earthly  of  fair  Nature's  sweet  child. 

Each  peak  in  the  range  of  these  lofty  mountains. 

Each  wild  rocky  glen,  and  each  cataract's  tone; 
Each  silvery  spray  of  these  wild  dashing  fountains, 

She  loved,  and  their  spirit  made  part  of  her  own. 
She  wooed  as  a  lover  the  voices  of  Nature, 

And  drew  from  her  bosom  the  thoughts  of  her  soul, 
Caressing  in  fondness  each  wild  mountain  feature, 

Caught  all  the  bright  gleamings  which  over  them  roll. 

Rest  well,  gentle  spirit,  the  tones  of  thy  mother 

Soft  lullabies  singing  are  heard  for  thee  now; 
The  brooklet — thy  sister,  the  mountain — thy  brother, 

Are  weaving  bright  chaplets  to  cover  thy  brow. 
Rest  well,  while  the  winds  softly  breathe  o'er  thy  pillow 

^olian  strains  'mid  the  boughs  of  the  pines, 
While  down  by  the  streamlet  the  bright  golden  willow, 

In  sorrow,  its  gentle  form  sweetly  inclines. 

57 


TOMB    OF    HELEN    HUNT  JACKSON. 


II. 


'Tis  fitting  that  she  calmly  lie 

On  this  enchanted  spot, 
Where  stranger's  footsteps  passing  by, 

Its  peace  disturbeth  not; 
Where  morning  sun  shall  sweetly  shine 
Through  clustering  boughs  of  waving  pine, 

By  none  on  earth  forgot, 
For  she,  a  mountain  flower,  whose  bloom 
Still  sweetly  lingers  'round  her  tomb. 

'Tis  sweet  indeed  to  visit  her, 

As  here  in  peace  she  lies, 
Alone  in  her  wild  sepulcher 

Beneath  the  mountain  skies; 
To  place  a  fragment  of  God's  thought 
Upon  her  tomb;  'twas  these  that  taught 

Her  noble  mind  to  rise 
Above  the  clouds  and  storms  of  earth, 
To  regions  of  a  purer  birth. 

Breathe  softly  winds,  breathe  faint  and  low, 

Over  the  mountain's  brow; 
By  moon's  pale  rays,  by  day-god's  glow 

Attune  thy  accents  now; 

And  morning  winds,  bring  ye  sweet  chimes 
And  breath  of  prayer  from  other  climes; 

For  earth  will  not  allow 
A  flower  so  pure  to  here  decay, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  all  away. 

This  gate  called  death  she  did  not  fear, 

But  deemed  it  just  the  way 
That  leads  to  loved  ones  grown  more  dear 

In  fields  of  endless  day; 
But  the  to-morrow  veiled  from  sight 
By  sombre  shadows  called  to-night, 

Which  fade  at  death  away; 
Beyond  the  tomb,  could  we  but  see, 
God's  love  lights  all  eternity. 

58 


THE    FONTAINK-QUI-BOUII.LK. 

There  in  the  fair  light  of  His  love 

Forever  more  to  sing, 
Where  is  no  night,  in  realms  above, 

Her  soul  is  blossoming  ; 
Where  every  joy  of  mortal  worth 
Is  blessed  with  an  eternal  birth, 

On  wave  of  spirit  wing, 
Forever  more  to  upward  rise 
And  heaven  find  one  glad  surprise. 


THE    FONTAINE-QUI-BOUILLE. 


Down  from  the  mountains  to  the  West 

Springing  from  out  their  snow-capped  crest 

A  merry  dashing  streamlet  flows, 

WThich  in  the  sunlight  sparkling  glows 

From  morn  'till  eve,  from  eve  'till  dawn, 

As  gleefully  it  murmurs  on, 

In  tones  of  joy  which  never  cease, 

As  o'er  each  rocky  precipice 

It  leaps  and  laughs  the  hours  away, 

From  Spring  'til  Winter's  chilling  day. 


Along  this  streamlet's  winding  bed, 
Grandeur  and  Beauty  firmly  wed, 
Present  to  the  observing  eye, 
Unequaled  charms  beneath  the  sky. 
On  either  side  the  mountains  rise 
Until  they  seem  to  reach  the  skies; 
No  grander  path  on  earth  than  this 
Which  leads  to  their  metropolis — 
A  mountain  on  whose  hoary  head 
Stern  Winter  ever  makes  his  bed, 
And  breathes  upon  the  world  below 
His  cooling  breath  from  drifts  of  snow. 


59 


THE    FONTAINE-QUI-BOUII^E. 

No  pen  can  write,  no  tongue  can  tell, 

The  beauties  of  a  mountain  dell; 

The  magic  glories  which  there  lie, 

All  power  of  speech  or  brush  defy, 

For  Nature's  voices  in  each  tone 

Reveal  a  beauty  all  her  own; 

And  man  can  only  faintly  feel 

Her  best  thoughts  through  his  bosom  steal, 

When  her  sweet,  subtile  power  to  bless, 

Is  felt  alone  in  quietness, 

Which  at  a  word  do  take  alarm, 

And  lose  their  best  and  truest  charm. 


If  you  would  know  her  sweetest  mood, 

Woo  her  alone  in  solitude, 

Where  by  the  ear  no  sound  is  heard 

Save  rustling  leaf  by  soft  wind  stirred, 

Or  thrilling  notes  of  some  wild  bird, 

Whose  merry  song,  in  harmony 

With  liquid  voice  of  mountain  stream, 

Echoes  along  from  rock  to  tree, 

So  softly  that  they  ever  seem, 

A  memory  of  some  faint  dream. 


Such  spots  are  found  each  Summer  day. 
Along  the  Fontaine-qui-bouille, 
Which  throws  aloft  its  silver  spray 
As,  o'er  the  granite  boulders  dashing, 
It  gambols  on  so  light  and  free, 
In  merry  mood  its  waters  splashing, 
In  tones  of  purest  melody; 
While  the  great  mountains  ever  throw 
Their  shadows  o'er  the  path  below, 
Which  winds  along  the  pleasant  stream, 
To  spots  more  fair  than  poet's  dream: 
Their  perfect  beauty  never  marred, 
Where  Heloise  and  Abelard, 
Or  kindred  spirits,  such  as  they, 
Might  pass  the  sultry  days  away. 


60 


CHEYENNE    CANON. 

There  velvet  grasses,  pure  and  sweet, 

Fit  carpets  weave  for  angels'  feet; 

Where  blooms  the  wild,  red  passion  rose, 

Which  o'er  the  granite  boulders  creeping, 

Gives  unto  every  wind  that  blows 

Rich  odors,  which  their  onward  sweeping 

Carries  to  each,  to  one  and  all, 

Whose  pathways  through  these  mountains  fall. 

Amid  these  scenes  the  air  is  rife 

With  ruddy  health  —  the  rose  of  life; 

That  gift  supreme,  and  all  divine, 

WThich  thrills  the  heart  like  sparkling  wine; 

By  which  to  mortals  here  is  given 

The  power  to  taste  the  joys  of  heaven. 


CHEYENNE   CANON. 

Along  thy  dim-lit  aisles  I  tread, 
And  listen  to  the  songs  e'er  sung. 
By  crystal  waters,  which  here  thread 
Their  way,  thy  cast-off  crowns  among; 
Strange  thoughts  unspoken  o'er  me  steal, 
And  to  myself,  myself  reveal. 

Who  am  I?     WThat  is  this  I  see? 
An  inner  world  I  ne'er  have  known? 
The  soul  of  some  sweet  mystery, 
Conies  o'er  me  here  with  thee  alone; 
A  voiceless  spirit  wings  the  glen  — 
vSoul  of  the  mountain  of  Cheyenne! 

Here  Nature's  silent  voices  speak; 
Would  all  their  melody  might  feel! 
Like  notes  from  spirit  songster's  beak, 
Music  of  feeling  they  reveal. 
All  words  are  harsh  and  meaningless 
Compared  with  Nature's  power  to  bless. 

Here,  in  thy  shadows,  soft  winds  creep, 
And  tall  pines  pierce  the  mellow  sky; 
The  golden-fingered  willows  weep, 
And  silver  streamlets  murmur  by! 
A  hush  falls  on  the  lips  of  men 
Within  thy  aisles,  oh!  grand  Cheyenne! 
61 


THE    MAID    TO   THE    OCEAN. 

THE   MOUNTAIN   BROOK. 

From  the  fountain, 

In  the  mountain, 
Rushing  ever  to  the  sea, 

Always,  ever, 

And  forever, 
Voicing  purest  melody. 
Glancing,  dancing,  foaming,  prancing, 

To  a  music  all  its  own; 
With  a  motion  as  entrancing 
As  its  magic  mellow  tone. 

Night  enshrouded, 

Day  beclouded, 
Silvered  with  the  moonlight's  gleani; 

In  the  twilight, 

'Neath  the  starlight, 
Or  the  sunlight's  golden  beam; 
Nothing  evermore  can  calm  its 

Ceaseless  efforts  to  unfold, 
The  pure  spirit  speaking  from  its 

White-lipped  waters,  sweet  and  cold. 


THE  MAID  TO  THE  OCEAN. 

Roll  gently,  ye  billows, 
Ye  deep  rolling  billows  — 

Roll  gently,  roll  gently,  I  pray, 
As  light  swaying  willows, 
As  sad,  weeping  willows; 

In  soft  breeze  of  bright  Summer  day 
For  over  the  ocean, 
The  deep,  restless  ocean, 

There  saileth  a  ship  for  this  shore; 
Be  gentle  thy  motion, 
Create  no  commotion 

'Til  its  voyage  safely  be  o'er. 
I  now  ask  it,  oh,  sea, 
Oh,  thou  deep,  heaving  sea, 

For  that  ship  bears  my  lover  true; 
Bring  him  safely  to  me 
And  forever  will  we 

Be  grateful  and  thankful  to  you. 
62 


THE   OLD  SEA  CAVE. 


I  wandered  to-day  to  the  old  sea  cave, 

Where  often  my  love  and  I 
Have  gazed  with  delight  on  the  breaking  wave, 

As  it  dashed  its  foam  on  high; 
As  it  shouted  aloud  an  anthem  grand, 

In  tones  that  were  deep  and  strong; 
It  said  to  each  heart  in  the  wide,  wide  world: 
"Let  your  love  be  like  my  song." 

Then  our  hearts  were  light  and  our  faith  was  strong, 

In  our  love  so  sweet  and  true; 
We  said  it  should  be  like  the  ocean's  song, 

Forever  the  same,  yet  new; 
We  said  it  should  be  like  the  ocean  wide, 

And  the  rocks  upon  the  shore, 
I  the  world  to  her,  she  to  me  a  bride, 

Forever  and  evermore. 

But  the  storms  came  on  and  the  billows  rolled 

Through  the  cave  down  by  the  sea; 
As  the  waves  beat  fierce  and  the  winds  blew  cold, 

They  swept  my  love  from  me. 
Oh,  my  sweet  love,  and  my  dear,  dear  love, 

So  lost  in  the  raging  storm, 
Come  back  to  niy  heart  from  the  sky  above, 

WTith  thy  love  so  true  and  warm. 

63 


THE    BIRTH    OF    DAY. 

Come  back,  come  back,  to  the  old  sea  cave, 

And  list  to  the  billows  roar; 
Come  back  to  my  heart  as  the  ocean  wave 

Comes  back  to  the  waiting  shore. 
Then  a  soul-voice  said  to  my  anguished  soul, 

'Twas  my  love  of  long  ago: 
My  heart  shall  be  thine  while  the  sea  waves  roll, 

Aye!  after  they  cease  to  flow." 


THE   BIRTH   OF   DAY. 


The  lake!  the  lake,  the  mountain  lake,  invitingly  now  lies, 

A  liquid  gem  of  beauty  rare,  beneath  the  Summer  skies. 

The  wind's  low  winging  fans  my  cheek  and  whispers — "Come  away 

To  scenes  amid  the  mountains,  where  first  falls  the  light  of  day." 

There,  where  the  skies  the  mountains  kiss,  are  pleasures  without  pain; 
And  tangled  through  the  leaves  and  grass,  the  Sun-sprite's  golden  skein; 
And  when  the  gloaming  shadows  fall,  at  holy  hour  of  eve, 
The  merry  Wood-nymphs,  through  them  all,  the  silvery  moonbeams  weave. 

When  morning  breaks  —  did'st  ever  see  the  morning's  face  at  birth, 
Where  cloudless  skies  are  linked  about  the  giants  of  the  earth? 
The  blush  — aye,  fairer  than  the  rose  the  infant  there  appears, 
While  his  fair  brow  fond  mother  Night  baptizes  with  her  tears. 

The  sun  comes  on  — the  infant  Morn  arises  on  its  wings, 
And  to  each  gulch  and  valley  deep  a  robe  of  beauty  flings; 
The  tears  night  gave  at  parting  there  are  turned  to  jewels  now, 
And  flash  resplendent  —  royal  gems  studding  a  royal  brow. 

The  crystal  streams  now  laugh  and  leap,  babbling  with  merry  glee; 
All  life  bounds  up  with  joyous  step,  from  slumber's  fetters  free; 
Morn,  now  full-fledged  in  blue  and  gold,  mounts  up  the  shining  way, 
As  Night,  the  chrysalis,  unfolds  the  butterfly  of  Day. 


"      r  OCEAN1  COURSERS 


BEAUTIFUL    MEADOWS. 

OCEAN   COURSERS. 

Down  by  the  sea  where  the  strong  coursers  thunder, 

As  galloping  on  they  come  in  with  the  tide; 
Snorting  and  shaking  their  white  manes  in  wonder, 

That  freedom  to  them  by  the  shore  is  denied; 
Charging  and  champing  they  hurl  themselves  boldly 

'Gainst  the  gray  rocks,  or  leap  over  the  sand, 
Until  weakened,  exhausted,  and  shuddering  coldly, 

They  bow  with  regret  to  the  power  of  the  land. 

Back  to  the  great  deep  they  creep  with  emotion, 

Nursing  their  anger  aroused  by  defeat; 
May  God  help  the  ship  which,  out  in  mid-ocean, 

These  wild,  angry  coursers  should  happen  to  meet; 
For  there  they  may  rise  where  their  power  is  unbroken, 

And  rule  with  destruction  again  and  again; 
How  many  grand  vessels  have  gone  down  unspoken 

By  aught  that  returned  to  the  knowledge  of  men! 

Far  from  all  aid,  at  these  wild  coursers'  mercy, 

Tossed  like  a  shell  by  the  force  of  their  will; 
Trembling  a  moment,  and  then  in  the  blue  sea, 

The  vessel  goes  down,  and  forever  is  still. 
On  sweep  the  coursers  still  leaping  and  calling 

For  vengeance  'gainst  all  who  would  rule  o'er  the  wave; 
Their  voice,  when  in  anger,  the  bravest  appalling 

At  thought  that  defeat  means  a  watery  grave. 


BEAUTIFUL   MEADOWS. 

Beautiful  meadows,  down  by  the  river, 

Dotted  with  daisies  and  buttercups  sweet; 
Jeweled  with  dewdrops  which  sparkle  and  quiver 

When  night,  before  morning,  beats  hasty  retreat. 
Beautiful  meadows,  beautiful  night; 
Beautiful,  beautiful  morning  light. 


WHEN   ROVER  DIED. 

When  Rover  died,  our  childish  hearts  were  filled 
With  a  wilder  grief  than  we  yet  had  known. 
Our  tears  fell  fast;  we  had  not  yet  been  skilled 

To  sorrow  hide;  the  fallow  ground  unsown 
Of  that  distrust  which  harvests  but  deceit; 
No  tares  yet  grew  amid  the  tender  wheat. 

For  honest  grief  we  sobbed  and  cried, 
When  Rover  died. 

WThen  Rover  died,  the  pleasant  Spring-time  sun 
Shed  o'er  the  hills  its  wealth  of  virgin  gold; 
But  sorrow  palled  our  hearts,  and  every  one 

Was  truly  sad;  a  friend  had  left  the  fold  — 
A  friend  for  love  of  whom  our  every  heart 
WTas  wrung  with  pain,  at  thought  that  we  should  part. 
Our  bosoms  heaved  with  sorrow's  tide, 
When  Rover  died. 

Calmly  he  lay  upon  the  grassy  lawn, 

Silent,  as  if  but  sleeping  out  his  night; 
We  wondered  that  he  woke  not  with  the  dawn, 
We  could  not  reconcile  death  with  the  sight 
Of  our  loved  playmate  lying  there  so  still; 
We  hoped  he  would  awake,  we  said,  "  He  will." 
And  thus  for  comfort  vainly  tried, 
When  Rover  died. 

We  buried  him  down  by  the  garden  wall, 

At  sunset's  hour;  out  from  the  cooling  shade 
The  whip-poor-will  sent  forth  its  mournful  call 

As  if  the  cadence  of  its  notes  were  made 
To  harmonize  with  hearts  that  mourned,  while  night, 
With  kindly  hand,  veiled  from  our  sight 

The  scene,  the  sense  of  peace  denied, 
When  Rover  died. 


66 


THE    MOUNTAIN    STREAM. 


The  gods  to  thee,  oh,  mountain  stream, 

No  thought  of  beauty  have  denied; 
Fairer  thou  art  than  angels'  dream, 

As  ever  on  thy  waters  glide. 
Thy  every  motion  is  of  grace; 

Thy  voicing  music's  perfect  tone; 
Fair  is  the  beauty  of  thy  face, 

As  fair  as  Beauty's  very  own. 


PLEASURES    A-FIEI«D. 

I  bound  to  greet  thee,  oh,  my  love! 

Oh,  love  of  mine,  so  sweet  and  fair, 
Within  thy  home,  in  glen  and  grove, 

Where  incense  ladens  all  the  air! 
Maid  of  the  hills  and  mountains  grand, 

Pearl  of  the  land  from  sea  to  sea; 
Thy  charms  the  love  of  all  command  — 

Thy  pure,  unsoiled  virginity! 

When  worn  and  weary  with  the  strife, 

That  fills  the  city's  busy  mart  — 
That  withers  all  the  flowers  of  life, 

And  renders  sore  and  tired  the  heart, 
I  turn  to  thee  for  rest  and  peace, 

Oh,  fount  of  joy  and  perfect  bliss; 
In  thee  I  find  from  care  release  — 

vSweet  comfort  in  thy  cooling  kiss. 

Emblem  of  purity  and  truth, 

Healer  of  sorrow  and  of  pain, 
With  thee  I  find  the  joys  of  youth 

Revived  and  living  now  again! 
Thy  joys  far  sweeter  now  appear 

Than  vista  of  expectancy  — 
Though  radiant,  it  is  less  dear 

Than  that  of  thy  sweet  memory. 


PLEASURES    A-FIELD. 

WThen  the  whistle  of  the  quail 

Trembles  on  the  quiet  air, 
Buckle  on  your  shooting  mail, 
To  the  open  fields  repair! 
It  is  pleasure 
Without  measure 
Thus  in  leisure 
Without  care 

On  the  hillside,  in  the  stubble, 
To  shake  off  all  earthly  trouble, 
And  all  foes  of  peace  to  dare. 
There  is  nothing  for  the  liver 

Half  so  good — it  cannot  fail 
To  arouse  it  —  bless  the  giver 
Of  the  sport  of  shooting  quail. 
68 


MY    CIGAR. 

The  fragrant  smoke  from  my  cigar 

Curls  up  in  wreaths  of  blue; 
Idly  my  thoughts  drift  now  afar 

From  old  scenes  to  the  new. 
My  youthful  hours  I  live  again, 

Old  visions  come  to  me; 
Freedom  from  care  without  a  pain 

Is  drawn  from  memory. 

CHORUS  :-There  is  no  hour  so  sweet  to  me 

As  when  I  live  afar 
In  those  loved  days  of  memory, 
While  smoking  my  cigar. 

It  serves  to  sooth  the  cares  of  life, 

And  banish  every  pain; 
It  lulls  to  ease  all  thoughts  of  strife 

And  warms  life's  chilling  rain. 
No  aid  so  potent  now  to  me, 

No  friend  so  good  and  true; 
Would  that  all  hearts  could  float  as  free 

As  its  light  waves  of  blue. 

CHORUS  :-There  is  no  hour  so  sweet  to  me 

As  when  I  live  afar 
In  those  loved  days  of  memory, 
While  smoking  my  cigar. 

I  envy  not  the  lord  his  wealth, 

Though  poverty  my  lot; 
No  blessing  adds  to  ruddy  health 

When  troubles  are  forgot. 
True  magic  balm  for  every  heart  — 

Wooer  of  visions  fair  — 
Before  thy  charms  cares  all  depart, 

And  dwell  not  anywhere. 

CHORUS  :-There  is  no  hour  so  sweet  to  me 

As  when  I  live  afar 
In  those  loved  days  of  memory, 
While  smoking  my  cigar. 

69 


WHEN    THE   JACK-SNIPE   COMES. 

When  the  Jack-snipe  comes, 

We  will  be 
Off  to  meet  him  in  the  marshes 

By  the  sea; 

There  amid  the  reeds  and  rushes, 
Which  our  every  footstep  crushes, 
While  the  murky  water  gushes 
To  our  knee, 
We  will  be, 
When 

the 

Jack- 
snipe 

comes. 

When  the  warm  rains  come 

In  the  Spring, 
And  the  migratory  birds  are 

On  the  wing; 

Then  of  pleasures  there  are  none, 
Like  to  those  with  dog  and  gun, 
Where  the  sluggish  waters  run, 
To  the  sea, 
Dreamily, 
When 

the 

Jack- 
snipe 

comes. 

What  sport  we  will  have 

By  and  by, 
WThen  the  sombre  shades  are  drifting 

O'er  the  sky; 
In  the  falling  of  the  year, 
When  the  leaves  are  brown  and  sear, 
Then  the  sport  we  love  so  dear 
We  will  try, 
By  and  by, 
When 

the 

Jack- 
snipe 


70 


TO   THE   OCEAN. 

When  the  leaves  turn  brown, 

Mark  the  day; 
To  the  marshes  and  the  meadows 

We'll  away; 

When  the  mallards  southward  fly, 
And  the  lilies  droop  and  die, 
With  the  Summer's  farewell  sigh 
We  will  say, 
Bless  the  day, 
When 

the 

Jack- 
snipe 

comes. 

"Scaipe,  scaipe!"  hear  the  note 

Of  the  game^ 
Ever  thus  from  marsh  and  meadows 

Just  the  same. 

See  him  twisting  in  his  flight, 
To  the  sportsman  what  a  sight! 
Filling  with  a  strange  delight 
All  his  frame, 
Else  he's  tame, 
When 

the 

Jack- 
snipe 

comes. 


TO   THE    OCEAN. 

Oh!  ocean  deep, 

Why  dost  thou  weep? 

And  mourn  and  sob  and  never  sleep? 

Is  there  no  rest 

For  thy  poor  breast, 

Unanswered  still  thy  heart's  request? 
Must  Sorrow's  shades  e'er  o'er  thee  creep? 


THE   DRYAD'S   CHAMBER. 


I  know  a  magic  chamber  where 

The  Queen  of  all  the  fairies  dwells, 
Within  the  mountains  where  the  air 

Is  perfumed  by  the  asphodels. 
Where  blue-bells  ring  their  sweetest  chimes, 

At  morn,  at  noon,  at  twilight  dim  ; 
Where  the  arbutus  clings  and  climbs, 

And  waters  voice  a  constant  hymn. 

The  wild  rose  clambers  o'er  its  walls, 

The  ivy  wraps  its  columns  round, 
Adorning  all  its  stately  halls 

With  grace  that  nowhere  else  is  found. 
The  rocks  moss-painted  at  the  fount, 

Are  sprayed  by  filmy  veils  of  mist, 
Cooling  this  chamber  as  they  mount 

To  cloud-land,  by  the  sunbeams  kissed. 

Springing  from  out  the  rocky  urns, 

Set  in  the  niches  here  and  there, 
Nodding  and  swaying  are  the  ferns, 

With  every  passing  breath  of  air. 
Depending  from  the  ceiling  green, 

Are  the  deep-red  laburnum  bells, 
And,  shining  brightly  in  between, 

The  dog-star  pure  its  beauty  tells. 

All  o'er  its  tessellated  floor 

Kind  Nature  weaves  for  it  each  Spring, 
From  entrance  unto  exit  door, 

A  flower-bespangled  carpeting. 
There  golden  mango-apples  grow, 

And  songbirds  warble  by  the  stream  ; 
The  whole  designed,  I  feel  and  know, 

From  Cupid's  most  enchanting  dream  ! 


72 


CATHEDRA!,    SPIRES. 

And  there  the  oriole  is  heard 

Full  oft  to  carol  forth  his  lay  ; 
What  minstrel  sweeter  than  this  bird, 

Which  Zephyr  rocks  the  livelong  day  ? 
A  ball  of  gold  across  the  shade 

He  seems,  as  here  and  there  beheld, 
Flitting  athwart  the  dreamy  glade, 

And  through  the  leafy  emerald. 

Oft  there  I  love  to  ponder  well, 

The  lessons  from  the  hand  divine  ; 
To  catch  the  force  of  Beauty's  spell, 

And  sip  of  Nature's  richest  wine. 
Oh,  Cupid  !  Cupid  !  would  that  I 

Might  ever  dream  such  dreams  of  bliss, 
For  heaven  must  be  very  nigh 

To  such  enchanting  spots  as  this. 


CATHEDRAL  SPIRES- YOSEMITE. 

No  foot  has  pressed  those  stairways  dizzy, 

No  hand  has  touched  those  silent  bells; 
No  mortal  sacristan  there  busy  — 

Silence  alone  the  story  tells. 
Those  aisles  untrod,  save  by  the  spirits, 

Whose  mortal  forms  rest  'neath  the  sod 
They  only  have  the  power  to  hear  its 

Chimes  of  God. 


73 


THE    CALIFORNIA   QUAIL. 
SPRING. 

She  comes,  she  comes,  the  sweet,  young  bride, 

In  royal  robes  most  rich  and  fair; 
Her  heralds,  with  a  conscious  pride, 

With  sweetest  music  fill  the  air. 
The  softest  robes  enfold  her  form, 

The  brightest  jewels  deck  her  brow; 
Her  smile  destroys  the  Winter's  storm, 

And  wreaths  the  land  in  beauty  now. 

Upon  her  cheeks  the  roses  bloom, 

And  violets  fill  her  tender  eyes, 
And  on  her  evenings'  early  gloom, 

The  odor  of  sweet  incense  lies; 
She  smiles,  and  sighs,  and  laughs,  and  weeps 

All  in  a  day,  her  changing  mood 
With  fleeting  wing  her  bosom  sweeps, 

And  thoughts  of  peace  and  rest  exclude. 


THE    CALIFORNIA   QUAIL. 

The  sportsmen  of  the  Golden  State 

Pursue  thee  to  a  cruel  fate, 

From  morning  bright  till  evening  late, 

With  trained  canine, 
They  tramp  thy  haunts  with  thoughts  elate 

On  thee  to  dine. 

They  hear  thy  whistling  call,  "  Whee-we," 
Echoing  oft,  in  accents  free, 
From  mountain  ranges  to  the  sea, 

As  from  thy  throat 
Issues  thy  hailing  melody 

In  quavering  note. 

In  vain  thou  seekest  cover  deep, 

Thy  hiding  place  thou  canst  not  keep; 

The  very  air  thy  odors  steep, 

And  thus  betray 
Thy  presence  when  thou  wake  or  sleep, 

By  night  or  day. 

74 


REFLECTIONS. 

The  sportsman's  dog  with  nostrils  fine, 
Scents  out  thy  home  and  gives  the  sign, 
And  they  together  thus  combine 

To  do  thee  ill; 
But  thou  full  oft  escape  design 

Of  scent  and  skill. 


REFLECTIONS. 

If  men  cared  more  for  rod  and  gun, 

For  running  streams  and   sparkling  fountains, 
For  balmy  breezes  —  golden  sun, 

Amid  the  valleys  and  the  mountains, 
They  would  be  better  and  more  free 
From  sordid  care 
And  thoughts  that  wear 
The  lustre  from  nobility. 

If  men  knew  what  true  pleasures  lie 

Awaiting  always  for  their  coming, 
Where  mountains  pierce  the  azure  sky 

And  wild  birds  fill  the  air  with  humming, 
They  oft  would  drop  the  dross  of  trade, 
And  for  a  day 
Throw  care  away, 
And  seek  the  wild  woods'  cooling  shade. 

If  men  cared  less  for  power  and  gold, 

Joy  would  remain,  the  heart  grow  lighter; 
And  pleasure  walk  with  them  when  old; 

The  path  of  age  be  smooth  and  brighter. 
Ashes  of  hope  and  wrecks  of  strife 
Would  less  endure, 
And  leave  secure, 
The  rule  of  Peace  at  close  of  life. 

The  fountain  Ponce  de  Leon  sought, 

Is  everywhere,  and  always  flowing 
\Vith  pleasures  which  cannot  be  bought, 
But  free  to  all  the  wise,  who  knowing 
That  life  is  naught,  unless  each  hour 
Some  pleasures  know, 
And  that  the  foe 
To  peace  is  greed  of  gold  and  power. 

75 


THE    SEASONS. 


Spring,  the  laughing  and  debonair 

Danseuse,  with  her  many  suits, 
Plays  a  changing  and  sprightly  air  — 

Satin  slippers  and  rubber  boots  ! 
Storm  and  sunshine  follows  her  train; 

Laughter  and  tears  she  revels  in  — 
Sobs  as  a  maid  for  lover  slain; 

Smiles  as  the  maid  who  would  one  win. 


Wreathed  in  a  maze  of  golden  curls, 

Bright  she  beams  from  the  sunny  South, 
Lightly  floating  in  merry  whirls  — 

Curves  bewitching  about  her  mouth! 
Now  she  hides  'neath  a  "water-proof," 

Storms  and  scolds  like  a  termagant; 
Plays  sorry  pranks  with  Trust  and  Truth  — 

Leading  coquet  of  all  extant! 

Trust  and  Truth  with  Summer  confer, 

Coming  down  through  a  golden  sky; 
Bridle  and  reins  of  gossamer, 

Riding  a  gorgeous  butterfly! 
Filling  the  air  with  odors  sweet, 

From  flowery  censers  swinging  free; 
Lady-slippers  encase  her  feet  — 

Her  song  the  soul  of  harmony. 

Brushing  the  gold  from  off  her  wings 

Upon  the  hills  and  waving  grain; 
Blessing  all  with  the  gifts  she  flings 

Freely  from  off  her  magic  train. 
With  languorous  ease  she  flits  along, 

Or  rests  in  the  shade  of  spreading  tree, 
Content  to  list  to  the  drowsy  song 

Of  the  buzzing  fly  or  humble  bee. 


76 


THE    SEASONS. 

Autumn  comes  with  her  brush  and  paints, 

Flecking  the  clouds  with  crimson  hue; 
Painting  pictures  fit  for  the  saints, 

On  the  broad  stretch  of  heaven's  blue; 
Changes  the  woods  from  green  to  brown, 

Colors  the  fruits  a  deeper  red ; 
Gives  the  maples  a  golden  crown  — 

Form  to  color  by  her  is  wed. 

She  throws  o'er  all  a  mystic  veil, 

Making  the  earth  to  truly  seem 
A  record  of  some  fairy  tale, 

Or,  some  sweet  thought  of  poet's  dream. 
She  fills  the  air  with  tender  sighs, 

And  drapes  the  sun  with  filmy  screen; 
All  flushed  and  tanned,  at  rest  she  lies, 

The  sweetest  sight  the  year  hath  seen. 

Winter  comes  with  his  reindeers  fleet, 

Over  a  robe  of  crystal  snow; 
Encased  in  furs  from  head  to  feet, 

While  arctic  winds  most  fiercely  blow. 
He  kills  the  flowers,  he  binds  the  stream, 

He  drives  the  birds  in  haste  away; 
He  plucks  the  heat  from  sunlight's  beam  — 

A  stern  old  king  is  Winter  gray. 

The  great  trees  bend  before  the  blast, 

And  fling  their  bare  arms  to  the  sky; 
A  gloom  o'er  all  the  hills  is  cast, 

As  he  goes  driving  swiftly  by. 
But  all  within  is  bright  and  warm, 

While  fireside  stories  speed  the  hours, 
Where  all  secure  from  Winter's  harm 

May  bloom  affection's  sweetest  flowers.. 


77 


WITH    MY    OI,D   SHOT-GUN. 

A  SUMMER  NOON. 

Soft,  mellow  skies  their  arches  fling 

Above  us  like  a  sea, 
Where  feathery  cloudlets,  slow  of  wing, 

Are  floating  dreamily. 

A  mystic  veil  of  royal  hue, 

The  distant  mountains  hood, 

And,  like  a  robe  of  silvery  blue, 
Lies  on  the  lake  and  wood. 

Deep  silence  broods  o'er  land  and  sea; 

Save  meadow  brook's  soft  tone, 
And  drowsy  hum  of  honey-bee, 

No  other  sounds  are  known. 


WITH    MY   OLD  SHOT-GUN. 

There  may  be  pleasures  greater,  but  I  haven't  found  them  out, 
In  this  country  where  the  game  birds  are  a-flying  all  about, 
Than  to  listen  in  the  morning  to  the  whistle  of  the  quail, 
As  it  echoes  o'er  the  valley  and  from  out  the  mountain  vale; 
Or  to  see  the  ducks  a-winging  o'er  the  fields  and  marshes  wide, 
Then  alighting  in  the  waters,  o'er  the  waves  to  smoothly  glide. 
Then  with  buoyant  expectations,  with  the  rising  of  the  sun, 
I  love  to  reap  enjoyment 

with 

my 

old 

shot 
gun. 

There's  another  always  with  me,  trotting  ever  by  my  side; 
To  share  my  every  pleasure  is  his  constant  care  and  pride; 
With  expressions  of  alertness,  keen  of  scent  and  bright  of  eye, 
It  is  seldom  that  a  game  bird  undetected  is  passed  by. 
Now  he's  trailing  up  a  "runner  "  that  is  dodging  here  and  there, 
See  how  cautiously  he  "works"  him  with  a  more  than  human  care, 
How  it  thrills  my  soul  with  pleasure,  Lord!  this  is  right  royal  fun, 
To  bag  the  gamy,  toothsome  quail 

with 

my 

old 

shot 
gun. 
78 


A   PRIMITIVE    ANGLER. 

On  the  marshes  in  the  morning,  when  at  first  the  grayish  light 

Marks  the  hour  -when  birds  aquatic  will  begin  their  early  flight; 

With  a  silence  all  about  me  lying  on  the  lea  and  lake, 

As  of  breathless  expectation  waiting  for  the  morn  to  wake; 

I  love  to  lie  and  listen  for  the  whistle  of  the  wings, 

Which  the  "flappers"  when  low  flying  ever  with  their  motion  sings. 

Then  the  pleasure  is  unmeasured  when  the  sport  is  well  begun, 

And  I  drop  the  ducks  about  me 

with 

my 

old 

shot 
gun. 

There's  a  wing-tipped,  wily  mallard  seeking  in  the  grass  to  hide, 
Not  another  thus  his  equal  will  by  no  one  be  denied; 
He  would  "fool  the  very  devil,"  is  of  him  a  true  report, 
But  this  will  not  avail  him  now,  he  cannot  fool  Old  Sport! 
There  he  plunges  in  the  water,  diving  low  beneath  the  bank, 
Pokes  his  head  up  where  the  lilies  grow  upon  the  water,  rank, 
But  Old  Sport  goes  plunging  after  and  the  bird  his  race  has  run; 
Glorious  sport  this,  in  the  Autumn, 

with 

my 

old 

shot 
gun. 


A   PRIMITIVE   ANGLER. 


Her  face  was  a  study  for  chisel  or  brush, 
With  skin  indescribably  white; 
Underneath  it  the  blood, 
Like  a  pure  crimson  flood, 
Spoke  of  health  and  enamored  the  sight. 
Her  fishing-cap  sat  on  a  cluster  of  curls, 
Behind  and  before,  just  the  same; 
A  "killing"  cap  'twas, 
And  my  heart  took  a  pause, 
For  her  beauty  its  strength  overcame. 


79 


A   PRIMITIVE    ANGLER. 

Her  sweet,  rosy  lips  and  sea-shell-like  ears, 
Fine-fluted,  transparent  and  thin, 
Lent  a  charm  to  the  sight, 
And  enhanced  my  delight 
For  the  prize  which  I  angled  to  win. 
I  sought  by  a  glance,  all  too  short  to  be  rude, 
To  attract  her  attention  to  me; 
But  I  found  that  this  bait 
Was  not  worth  its  own  weight, 
And  no  "catch"  would  it  make,  I  could  see. 

I  next  tried  a  pose,  but  to  this  there  arose 
Not  a  smile  or  a  flush  to  her  face. 
I  arose,  and  then  took 
From  my  satchel  a  book; 
I  have  known  them  all  fears  to  displace. 
The  beauty  sat  silent  for  a  half-hour  or  more, 
While  I  was  distracting  my  brain; 
For  could  I  find  out 
How  to  catch  such  a  "trout!" 
I  never  would  angle  again. 

I  next  opened  up  my  new  book  of  bright  flies, 
And  held  them  where  she,  too,  could  see; 

In  a  moment  I  saw 

That  this  card  was  a  draw, 
For  she  leaned  sweetly  over  to  me. 
And  as  her  soft  breath  fell  warm  on  my  cheek, 
I  felt  I  a  good  "strike"  had  made; 

But  I  was  not  quite  sure 

That  my  line  would  endure 
The  "fight"  with  this  beautiful  maid. 

I  cleared  up  my  throat  with  the  thought  to  begin 
And  looked  mildly  up  to  her  eyes; 
But  she  never  once  took 
Her  glance  from  my  book; 

"More  than  trout  are  caught,"  thought  I,  "with  flies." 
We  soon  fell  to  talking  of  angling  for  trout; 
The  maid  on  one  point  was  quite  firm: 
"Follow  nature,"  she  said, 
"Success  only  is  wed 
To  the  hook  which  is  hid  in  a  worm." 

80 


•     .,.'". 

V- 


• 


& 


THE   YOSEMITE    VALLEY. 

Silence!"     Emotions  new  and  strange  here  rise 

And  sweep  with  cyclonic  force  the  breast! 

A  new,  strange  world,  all-powerful  and  sublime, 

Enchains,  enslaves,  and  fetters  all. 

The  greatest,  most  of  all,  are  fettered  most. 

Only  the  pygmies  chatter,  and  fools  alone 

Find  laughter  here  where  Nature  speaks 

In  tones  of  grandeur  and  sublimity! 

Strong  lips  are  dumb,  and  eyes  unused  to  tears 

Are  forced  to  yield  the  highest  tribute  of  the  soul 

To  these  grand  thoughts  of  the  Eternal  Mind! 


In  the  golden  West,  where  the  towering  mountains 

Pillow  their  heads  on  the  breast  of  the  sky, 
Where  the  storm-king  stores  in  his  frozen  fountains  • 

L/ife  for  the  valleys,  when  parched  and  dry; 
In  a  wonder-land,  where  God,  in  splendor, 

His  thought  has  spoken  in  words  of  stone; 
Grandeur  sublime  and  Beauty  tender 

Guard  His  throne. 

'Mid  massive  domes  of  the  Sierras'  columns, 

WThere  power  supreme  to  the  eye  is  shown, 
Where  an  awe-inspiring  vastness  soleinns 

The  mind  with  force  of  the  great  Unknown, 
There  lies  a  gem  —  a  thought  of  beauty 

Which  the  mountains  guard,  as  the  depths  the  sea, 
Where  peace  is  law  and  joy  is  duty  — 

Yosemite! 

Its  granite  walls  but  the  eagles  follow 

To  dizzying  heights  in  the  distant  sky; 
No  eye  can  see  from  their  crests  the  hollow 

WThere  in  peace  the  beautiful  valleys  lie; 
No  foot  has  trod  its  sky-linked  turrets; 

The  heaven's  purple  enmantles  them, 
The  crystal  snows  alone  are  for  its 

Diadem. 

8l 


THE   YOSEMITE   VALLEY. 

Long  ages  since  a  glacier  rested 

Within  these  walls,  and  then  begun 
Erosion's  work,  'til,  of  form  divested  — 

Slowly  yielding  to  rain  and  sun  — 
The  ice-king  grand,  with  beauty  glowing, 

That  here  on  high  had  reared  its  head, 
Hearing  the  song  of  the  south  wind  blowing, 

Left  its  bed. 

These  massive  walls  remain  unheeding 

The  frosts  of  Winter,  the  Summer's  sun; 
Alone  unmoved  by  every  pleading 

By  Nature  voiced,  since  time  begun. 
The  winds,  the  storm,  the  rage  volcanic, 

In  vain  to  move  their  structure  yearns; 
Jove's  lance  wTith  seething  hate  satanic 

Futile  burns. 

The  golden  rays  of  the  sunlight,  turning 

The  icy  bolts  of  the  vaults  of  snow, 
Shone  in,  and,  'neath  their  kisses  burning, 

The  gems  were  wooed  to  a  crystal  flow. 
"River  of  Mercy"  for  all  things  near  it, 

Dispensing  life  with  its  song  of  glee, 
White  as  a  virgin's  unsoiled  spirit, 

Light  and  free. 

Swifter  than  winds  or  the  flight  of  swallow, 

The  milk-white  waves  of  this  river  foam 
On  toward  the  granite-guarded  hollow, 

WThere  bloom  and  joy  find  a  welcome  home; 
With  plunge  and  shout,  like  distant  thunder, 

It  leaps  from  the  brow  of  that  mountain  wall; 
It  spins  and  weaves  and  bursts  asunder 

In  its  fall. 

White  rockets  flash  from  the  columns'  cover, 

Their  courses  marked  by  a  silvery  mist; 
Caught  by  the  winds  the  spray-wreaths  hover, 

In  folds  of  light  by  the  sunbeams  kissed; 
Veiling  the  river's  lips  which  thunder, 

With  sprays  bejeweled  and  clouds  high  rolled: 
Beauty  most  rare!    Magical  wronder, 

Shot  with  gold  ! 

82 


YOSEMITE     FALLS 


EVENING    ON    MT.    WHITNEY. 

Vision  divine,  unmoved  and  nameless, 

Thy  wonders  remain  while  ages  fret; 
Thy  power  unfettered  and  ever  tameless, 

Thy  Bows  of  Promise  forever  set; 
Now  by  the  gold  of  the  sunlight  painted, 

Now  by  the  rays  of  Night's  pale  bride; 
Matchless  work  of  all  things  created  — 

Deified  ! 

Thy  castled  wTalls,  sphinx-like,  forever 

Their  silent  story  ceaseless  tell, 
Unto  the  crystal,  foaming  river, 

Whose  tones  of  thunder,  chimes  of  bell, 
Voice  the  only  thought  here  spoken 

Of  ages  past  wyhich  one  may  know, 
Heard  in  the  words  unchanged,  unbroken, 
"Long  ago." 

Throne  of  the  continent!    Queen  of  all  splendor! 

Creation  supernal!    Work  wholly  divine! 
When  touched  by  thy  presence  the  cold  heart  grows  tender, 

And  reels  with  a  joy  as  though  drunken  with  wine. 
Transcendent  valley,  with  sky-woven  ceiling, 

Rivers  that  murmur,  white-lipped  falls  that  roar, 
Records  divine,  His  wonders  revealing 

More  and  more. 


EVENING    ON    MT.    WHITNEY. 

Upon  this  mountain  king  the  evening  sun 
Had  placed  a  coronet  of  gold.     The  day 
Had  ceased  from  toil;  adown  the  western  way 
His  gorgeous  cohorts  paused  as  if  to  view 
The  matchless  scene,  and  throw  a  fond  farewell 
To  snow-crowned  peak  and  verdure-painted  vale. 
Swiftly  the  passing  moments  flew  between 
The  golden  warp,  unrolling  from  the  sun, 
Weaving  into  the  woof  of  day  bright  threads, 
To  form  the  mantle  which  the  Present  gives, 


EVENING    ON    MT.    WHITNEY. 

Has  ever  given,  nor  will  cease  to  give 

Unto  the  Past  'til  Time  shall  still  his  loom 

And  sink  into  oblivion.     Silence, 

Deep,  soulful  and  profound  with  clearer  sense, 

Gives  loftier  meaning  now  than  words  convey, 

For  here  the  soul  is  charmed  by  thoughts  half-formed, 

To  which  a  spoken  word  would  be  a  sword, 

Or,  as  the  steel-clad  hoof  of  trooper's  horse 

To  newly-fallen  snows  or  blooming  flowers. 

Invading  cloud-land  here  I  stood  and  gazed 

Upon  the  Alpine  billows  far  and  wide  — 

Snow-capped,  sky-mantled  and  cloud-swept  they  seemed, 

Flashing  resplendent  'neath  the  setting  light, 

Revealing  by  their  silent  forms  of  power 

Such  vastness  as  to  cause  my  trembling  soul 

To  sink  into  itself,  nor  dare  to  stand 

Upon  this  awful  brink,  lest  it  should  fall 

And  lose  its  every  sense  of  being  thus 

In  contemplation  of  its  nothingness. 

Thousands  of  peaks  and  domes  below  appeared, 

And  folded  in  between  the  lovely  vales, 

A  thousand  flashing  streams,  like  silver  trails, 

Wound  gracefully  from  parian-folded  brow 

To  verdure-sandled  foot  of  grandeur's  forms. 

A  multitude  of  lakes  beset  the  scene, 

Befitting  jewels  for  these  mighty  kings; 

Pearls,  emeralds  and  rubies  each  in  turn 

More  beautiful  appeared,  as  light  and  shade 

Gave  to  them  each  a  glory  all  its  own. 

The  sun  sunk  slowly  to  his  wonted  rest, 
But  ere  he  set,  his  flashing  swords  of  flame 
Leaped  forth  and  stabbed  the  bosom  of  the  day 
'Til  sky  and  cloud  and  lofty  peaks  of  snow 
Were  bathed  in  crimson,  from  the  fatal  wound. 
The  soft  wind  slowly  winged  the  vales  below, 
Chanting,  in  solemn  tones,  a  requiem. 
Night  softly  drew  her  mantle  o'er  the  scene 
And  golden  stars  kept  watch  until  the  dawn. 


MY  HUNTING  DOG. 

"Hie  on,  my  boy!"     At  my  command, 

He  speeds  away  with  merry  bound; 
This  way  and  that,  by  wave  of  hand, 
He  covers  every  foot  of  ground. 

His  feathered  coat  and  silken  ears, 

(In  color  white  and  black  and  tan) 

Fanned  by  the  winds,  a  joy  appears 
Unto  the  eye  of  every  man. 

Bounding  along  the  grassy  slope, 

Snuffing  the  air  so  gently  blown; 

He  sudden  halts  him  in  his  lope, 

And  stands  as  if  carved  out  of  stone. 

With  head  half  turned  toward  the  wind, 
He  "points"  the  bird  from  sight  secure; 

Though  covered  in  its  grassy  blind, 

He  knows  its  presence,  prompt  and  sure. 

One  paw  half  raised,  just  where  the  scent 
Froze  every  muscle  of  his  frame; 

Unending  source  of  wonderment, 

By  which  he  says,  "I've  found  the  game. 

"Steady,  my  boy!"     And  I  advance, 

Thrilled  with  the  scene  so  dear  to  me; 
See  how  his  brown  eyes  sparkle,  dance; 
His  attitude,  expectancy. 

One  step  again,  whir-r-bir-r  bang!  bang! 

He  drops  at  flutter  of  the  bird; 
And  while  the  echoing  shots  still  rang: 
"Go  fetch!"    He  bounds  away  at  word. 

Proudly  he  bears  the  trophy  in, 

And  yields  it  to  my  waiting  hand; 

Careful  the  word  of  praise  to  win, 

There's  scarce  his  equal  in  the  land. 

And  do  you  wonder  that  I  pause, 

And  on  him  words  of  love  expend? 

I  always  do,  and  that  because 

Man  has  no  better,  truer  friend. 

85 


THE    SUN-KISSED   SEA. 


A  beauty  rare,  beyond  compare, 

Is  sun-kissed  sea. 
No  scene  so  calm —  no  scene  so  fair 

As  this  to  me. 

When  floods  of  light  dispel  the  night, 

The  morning's  kiss, 
On  waves  which  sparkle  with  delight, 

Is  loveliness. 

When  ends  my  day,  I  trust  and  pray, 

My  voyage  be 
O'er  waters  where  some  golden  ray 

May  kiss  the  sea. 


86 


BRAMBLES    AND    CORN. 


I    would    away    from    the    city,  where  trouble    and 

discord  aboundeth; 
Where  Pride,  and  Envy,  and  Malice  with  daggers 

drawn  lieth  in  wait; 
Away  from  the  slimy,  coiled  serpents  whose  anger 

no  warning  soundeth, 
Away   from   the  pitiless    tigers  crouching  each  side 

of  the  gate. 

I   would  away  from  the  falseness,  the  shallow  and 

constant  dissembling  — 
The  ill  masquerading  of  self,  the  better  to  seize  on 

one's  prey  — 
The  caricatures  of  manhood  whose  natures  have  not 

the  resembling 
Of  aught  that  toucheth    with  honor,  who  love 

darkness  rather  than  day. 

I    would    away     from    the    fever,    the    restless    and 

anguishing  burning 
That    throbs    through    my    veins    with    unrest, 

compelling  the  fibers  to  part; 
I    would    seek    me   a   balm    and    a   solace    for    this 

unceasing  yearning 
Which  draws,  like  a  fierce  young    lion,   the    warm 

crimson  blood  from  my  heart. 

But    wherefore    this    yearning?      \Vhy    make    of 

humanity's  evils  a  thorn? 
They   are,  and   while   mankind  is   human    and 

finite,  will  be; 
So  long  as  love's  fondest  fruition  is  felt  in  the  kiss 

of  first-born; 
So  long  as  heaven's  blue  arching  looks  smilingly 

down  on  the  sea. 

87 


BRAMBLES    AND    CORN. 

I   plead    no  contentment  with   evil;    unrest  is   the 

plowshare  of  good, 
Preparing  the  soul  for  its  labor  in  seeking  only  the 

light; 
The  hope  of  endless  progression;    the  effort   to  be 

understood; 
Longing  for  that  which   is  better;    the  cry   of  the 

lost  in  the  night. 

Can   Joy   be    when    Harmony    fleeth  ?     Composure, 

where  soundeth  a  din  ? 
Can  one  handle  thistles  unpricken  ?  Touch  fire,  and 

not  feel  the  burn  ? 
Drink  deep  at  the  fountains  of  poison,  and  escape 

the  fever  within  ? 
Does  acquaintance  with  sin  e'er  quicken  desire   all 

sinning  to  spurn  ? 

Such  knowledge,  to  most  minds,  is  evil,  and  casteth 

an  upas-tree  shade; 
The  pure  must  live  in  the  sunlight — the  sunlight  of 

love  and  of  truth; 
The  shadow  of  evil  will  tarnish,  and  dwelt  in,  will 

surely  degrade, 
Sapping  the  fountains  of  pleasure  and  searing  the 

beauty  of  youth. 

Weeds  ripen    without  cultivation;    the  province  of 

labor  is  plain ; 
Stony  ground  may  be  made  fallow;  the  poison  nut 

changed  to  a  fruit; 
But  patience  and  toil  the  requiring,  for  progress  is 

made  but  with  pain; 
Fruitage  the  end  of  the  season,  the  Spring-time 

presents  but  the  root. 

The    brambles   grow    rank     in     the    thicket,    there 

nourish  the  poisonous  vines; 
The   fruits    of    the    field    and    vineyard    by    long 

cultivation  are  born; 
There  would  be  no  reaping  or  harvest,  no  drinking 

of  life-giving  wines, 
If  freedom  from  tares  were  unnurtured  to  yield  us 

the  grapes  and  corn. 

88 


BRAMBLES    AND    CORN. 

What    though    you    escape    the    foul    poisons  ?     be 

blinded  to  all,  and  yet  dumb  ? 
Evil  exists  as  a  dagger,  which  knowledge  will 

drive  to  your  heart, 
And   Pity    will    brood    you    a    sorrow,    so    sure    as 

to-morrow  will  come, 
Its  shadow  lie  heavy  upon  you,  and  never  more 

will  it  depart. 

How    can    you   escape    it  ?     How    dare  you  ?     Your 

duty  supreme  is  to  keep 
A    loving    and    tender    surveillance    over    your 

brother  and  friend, 
Trusting  to  Him  who  is  sleepless,  when  it  needs  be 

your  weary  eyes  sleep, 
Undoubting  that  in  the  great  future  Peace  will 

crown  toil  in  the  end. 

The  deeds  for  rejoicing  are  fewer  than   those  over 
which  we  may  weep, 

And  laughter  often  is  echo  of  unseen  yet  heart 
rending  tears; 

We  masquerade  sorrow  with  smilings,  the  bitter  is 
poignant  and  deep; 

Merriment  lives  but   a  season,  while  grief   taketh 
root  for  the  years. 

I  am  so  weary,  weary  of  evil,  so  weary  of  pain 

and  strife; 
Weary  of  whetting Fand  dulling  the  sword  to  be 

used  in  the  fray; 
The  ceaseless  doing  and  undoing  of  threads  in  the 

warp  of  this  life. 
To  what  end  ?     The  peace  that  cometh,  if  peace 

come  at  close  of  the  day. 

WThat  is  life  for  ?     But  to  gather  the  dross  of  earth 

in  full  measure  ? 
To   dig  and   to  delve  in  the   mart  'til  Avarice 

turns  Youth  to  Age? 
To  warp  the  heart  and  the  mind  till  they  make  of 

dissembling  a  pleasure  ? 
To  record  the  wreckage  called  gain,  in  blood  in 

each  line  on  the  page  ? 


BRAMBLES   AND    CORN. 

Wherefore  this   unceasing,  conscienceless   grasping 

for  that  which  is  fleeting? 
This   chasing  of  dazzling  bows  that  dissolve    like 

mists  in  the  air  ? 
This    pandering    to    plunder    and    passion,    and 

driving  the  heart  to  beating, 
Till   panting    and    o'erworn    we   languish    and 

Hope  gives  way  to  Despair  ? 

For  what  shall  it  profit   the   miser   though    he  the 

whole  world  should  acquire  ? 
Will  it  brighten  the  bloom  of  roses,  or  deaden  the 

prick  of  thorn  ? 
Will   it   deepen   one  single  pleasure,  or  strengthen 

one  righteous  desire  ? 
Will   it  soften  the  glow  of  sunset,  or  brighten  the 

flush  of  morn  ? 

The   needs  of  the  body  are  transient,  the   soul    in 

itself  is  divine; 
Of    earth    we   needs  must  be  earthy,  if  wedded  to 

self  and  to  gain; 
The  body  is  but  an  expression,  symbolic  and  plastic 

the  sign; 
The  potence  and  power  of  the  spirit  beams  out  on 

the  world  through  the  brain. 

And  shall  we  content   to  degrade   it,  to  make  of  it 

servant  alone  ? 
The    King  become  but  a  vassal,   a  menial  for 

time-serving  deeds  ? 
Tossed    hither    and    thither    at    random,    by    fierce 

passion-winds  rudely  blown  ? 
A   camp-follower  in   the  procession,  subsisting  on 

husks  and  weeds  ? 

The  fountains  of  Peace  and  of  Pleasure  lie  in  the 

line  of  transition, 
Revealed    by    thoughts  that  tend   upward    and 

waken  desire  to  press  on, 
Inquiring  of  Faith  the  direction,  making  of  self  an 

omission , 
And  ever  praying  and  seeking  the  roseate  flush  of 

the  dawn. 

90 


THE    DESTRUCTION    OF   POMPEII. 

ON  SEEING  A  ROSEBUD  IN  THE  STREET. 

I  saw  a  rosebud  in  the  street, 

Where  it  had  carelessly  been  tossed; 

Just  where  a  thousand  passing  feet 

Were  treading,  when  the  way  they  crossed. 

It  pained  me  much  this  flower  to  see, 
Trodden  and  crushed  into  the  slime; 

It  seemed  to  cry  appealingly 

Against  the  cold,  unfeeling  crime. 

For  it  is  crime  and  nothing  less, 
Aught  of  the  beautiful  to  crush; 

The  lack  of  heart  —  the  soullessness  — 

Shown  by  the  crowd  should  cause  a  blush. 

And  then  I  thought,  oh,  deeper  shame! 

That  Truth  should  prompt  me  to  relate 
Of  crimes  too  dark  to  have  a  name, 

WTereby  pure  souls  meet  such  a  fate. 


THE   DESTRUCTION   OF   POMPEII. 

When  first  the  infant  Morn  stirred  on  his  couch 

And  lit  the  Orient  with  grayish  light, 

Bidding  his  radiant  heralds  to  announce, 

In  brighter  gleams,  the  coming  of  that  day, 

He  knew  the  glorious  sun  would  look  upon 

No  fairer  scene,  in  all  the  circling  orbit  of  his  course, 

Than  Pompeii,  nestled  on  the  bay,  at  foot 

Of  grandest  mountain  in  all  Italy. 

The  day-god  mounted  up  his  shining  way 

And,  looking  on  that  city  fair,  beheld 

A  brilliant  scene  of  pomp  and  pageantry. 

The  blare  of  trumpets  and  the  sound  of  horns 

Was  heard  through  all  its  busy  streets,  and  beat 

Against  the  dome  of  heaven  with  their  blasts. 

The  populace  in  holiday  attire, 

Hither  and  thither  ran,  intent  on  deeds 

Of  needed  preparation  for  the  day; 

A  day,  they  thought,  of  revels  and  of  sports  — 

91 


THE    DESTRUCTION    OF    POMPEII. 

Such  sports  as  savage  breasts  delight,  and  move 

To  quicker  beatings  hearts,  most  hard  and  stern; 

For  on  this  day,  as  was  the  custom  then, 

The  prisoners  and  such  as  pleased  the  king 

To  sacrifice  for  trespass  of  his  will, 

Were  to  be  led  into  the  arena, 

For  the  ferocious  beasts  to  feed  upon, 

While  all  the  fierce  Campanians  looked  on. 

The  wild  beasts  roared  within  their  prison  cells, 

Where,  for  long  days,  without  the  taste  of  food, 

They  had  been  kept,  that  hunger  sharpen  keen 

Their  thirst  for  human  blood,  and  render  all 

Their  deep  ferocity  more  horrible! 

The  multitude  assembles:  scarce  less  fierce 

Are  they  than  the  wild  beasts,  whose  angry  roars 

They  greet  with  loud  and  eager  shouts  of  joy! 

Each  face  a  canvas  on  which  Passion  throws 

His  strongest  limnings  of  ferocity! 

Tutored  in  war  and  used  to  scenes  of  blood, 

Hardened  in  cruelty,  and  conscienceless 

Of  all  emotions  which  are  akin  to  grace! 

Lost,  and  thrice  damned  with  every  curse  that  hell 

Metes  out  to  those  who  trample  Heaven's  law. 

All  here  assembled  are  athirst  for  blood! 

Warm,  human  blood,  spilled  by  the  lion's  power! 

Victims,  defenseless  and  alone,  they  joy 

To  see,  by  wild  beasts  rent  —  torn  limb  from  limb! 

The  while  that  life  doth  linger,  hear  their  cries  — 

Cries  that  should  freeze  the  life-blood  in  its  course, 

And  render  dumb  all  sound  from  human  lips, 

Save  Horror's  shrieks  and  Pity's  wailing  groans, 

But  o'er  such  scenes,  these  bestial  fiends  but  laugh, 

And,  filling  chalices  of  fresh,  warm  blood, 

They  drink  to  soul  of  Nero,  Nero!  King! 

And  rend  the  heavens  with  their  loud  acclaim, 

In  honor  of  his  many  butcheries. 

Full  times  and  oft  had  they  assembled  thus 
To  witness  such  wild  carnivals  of  blood. 
The  amphitheatre  for  this  was  made, 
A  temple  for  these  cruel  scenes  of  death! 

92 


THE    DESTRUCTION    OF   POMPEII. 

Scenes,  black  as  malice  and  malignant  hate 

Combined,  could  e'er  devise  to  feed  upon! 

The  king  and  all  his  royal  court  looked  on, 

And  cursed  or  cheered  as  it  befit  their  moods, 

Commenting  on  the  wild  and  angry  beasts 

As  they  leaped  forth  and  crouched  about  the  walls. 

Selecting  those  of  fiercest  gaze,  whose  eyes 

Most  fiercely  shone  with  light  of  hungry  fir,e, 

They  said  :    "This  beast  will  make  a  glorious  war! 

And  that  will  lose  no  time  to  glut  his  maw 

With  human  blood."     And  wagers  laid  they  all 

Upon  the  contest;  but  as  to  beasts  alone, 

For  the  poor  men  were  victims  all  foredoomed. 

See!    now  the  beasts  have  scented  out  their  prey! 
They  crouch  and  crawl  toward  the  terrored  men; 
Soft-footed  they,  and  noiseless  of  approach; 
But  oh,  their  eyes!    how  luminous  and  fierce! 
Darting  a  constant  gleam  of  burning  fire. 
Now  crouching  low,  they  all  prepare  to  spring; 
Their  great  forms  quiver,  and  they  lash  their  tails, 
One  instant  more,  now!  now!     The  throng  awaits, 
With  bated  breath,  the  final  spring,  when,  lo! 
The  earth  was  shaken  as  a  reed  in  storm! 
Each  heart  was  filled  with  terror,  and  each  face 
Grew  ghastly  white  at  thought  of  coming  doom. 
The  wild  beasts,  filled  with  dread,  approached  the  men 
And  licked  their  hands!  Crouched  at  their  feet  in  fear, 
And  seemed  as  if  to  crave  of  them  a  shield  ! 

The  sea  becalmed  as  though  its  powers  were  dead; 

The  air  ceased  breathing,  and  a  murky  hue 

Spread  o'er  the  heavens  as  a  veil  to  hide 

From  others'  eyes  that  city's  awful  doom. 

The  earth  rose  and  fell  like  ocean  billows; 

The  city's  masonries  were  overthrown 

And  tossed  about  as  though  but  eider-down! 

The  heavens  burst  into  a  sea  of  flame 

As  Mount  Vesuvius,  erstwhile  so  calm, 

Belched  forth  the  mighty  billows  of  his  ire, 

Which  rolled,  a  burning  sea,  adown  his  form 

93 


THINGS  TO   I.OVE. 

And,  like  mammoth  rockets,  shot  across  the  sky, 
Pouring  great  flaming  cataracts  of  fire 
Upon  that  city's  all  defenceless  head  ! 

In  wildest  terror  those  who  could,  now  fled; 

Each  praying  unto  all,  for  help  and  aid. 

The  terror  swept  away  all  barriers, 

And  kings  from  vassals  humbly  craved  a  boon  ! 

Affrighted  through  the  streets  they  shrieking  ran, 

Seeking  for  safety,  and  yet  finding  none. 

The  amphitheatre  —  the  city's  pride, 

Opened  its  mighty  walls  and  trembling  fell, 

Crushing  beneath  its  ponderous  form  the  throng. 

The  rolling,  dashing,  hissing  sea  of  fire, 

I/ike  the  great  billows  of  the  deep,  in  storm, 

Rolled  through  its  streets  and  from  the  heavens  fell, 

Until  beneath  the  molten  waves  it  lay 

A  corpse,  whose  cause  of  death  became  its  tomb. 


THINGS   TO   LOVE. 

I  love  all  beauty,  let  it  be 

In  sky,  or  flower,  or  leafy  tree, 

In  babbling  brook  or  humming  bee; 

I  love  it  well, 
When  sunset  on  the  calm,  blue  sea 

Casts  Beauty's  spell. 

All  Nature  speaks  of  beauties  rare; 
In  every  cloud  that  floats  in  air, 
And  all  around  us,  everywhere, 

Will  we  but  see 
The  master  hand  of  beauty  there  — 

Divinity! 


94 


THE   ANGELS   OF   SHILOH 

(A    FRAGA\ENT) 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  GREAT  REBELLION 


THE  ANGELS  OF  SHILOH. 


,  fair  is  the  land  where  the  sun  brightly  shines, 
Where  the  palmettoes  grow  and  the  tall,  stately  pines 
Rear  aloft  their  proud  heads  to  the  soft,  mellow  skies, 
Wafting  back  to  the  sea  its  low,  murmuring  sighs. 
Where  the  richest  fruits  ripen,  and  fairest  of  flowers 
Eternally  bloom,  amid  sy Ivan-like  bowers; 
Where  the  nightingale's  music  at  twilight  is  heard, 
And  the  heart  by  the  beauties  of  nature  is  stirred; 
Where  birds  of  gay  plumage  fill  forest  and  grove, 
And  balmy  winds  whisper  of    music  and  love; 
Where  the  magnolia  blooms,  fairest  flower  'neath  the  sky; 
The  wealth  of  its  beauty  with  Eden's  might  vie  ; 
Where  the  orange,  the  lemon,  the  fig  and  the  palm, 
Hath  laden  the  air  with  the  wealth  of  their  bairn. 
Here,  here  short  of  heaven,  I  would  choose  me  to  dwell, 
And  drink  deep  of  the  joys  which  no  language  can  tell, 
For  the  gods  of  the  land,  and  the  gods  of  the  sea, 
Have  lavished,  sweet  Southland,  their  affections  on  thee. 
If  a  spot  on  the  earth  may  be  found  whereon  bliss 
Is  borne  full  on  each  breeze,  it  is  this,  it  is  this. 
The  light  of  her  mornings,  when  o'er  the  sea  streaming 
In  ripples  of  radiance  brilliant  and  fair, 
Steals  soft  on  the  eyelids  of  sleepers  there  dreaming, 
And  wakes  them  with  breath  of  perfume  on  the  air. 
The  sweet,  wooing  kiss  of  her  breezes  at  night; 
The  light  of  her  moon's  witching  beams  as  they  fall 
In  a  shimmering  veil  of  soft  silvery  light, 
When  cast  in  their  magical  splendor  o'er  all, 
Form  a  scene,  once  beheld,  time  can  never  efface, 
For  no  other  can  vie  with  its  beauty  and  grace. 

99 


THE    ANGELS    OF    SHII,OH. 

Sweet  land  of  enchantment,  how  balmy  and  tender 
Are  all  of  the  breezes  which  over  thee  blow; 
The  scent  of  thy  roses,  how  sweetly  they  render 
The  breath  of  thy  gardens  to  mortals  below  ! 

At  quiet  hours  of  even-tide, 
Here  lovers  o'er  her  silver  lakes 
In  light  canoes  so  softly  glide, 
The  waves  scarce  tremble  in  their  wakes; 
And  golden  stars  seem  angel-eyes, 
As  through  the  purpling  shroud  of  night 
These  liquid  mirrors  of  the  skies 
Reflect  their  glories  to  the  sight. 
With  sky,  and  moon,  and  stars  above, 
And  stars,  and  moon,  and  sky  below, 
They  fondly  breathe  their  vows  of  love, 
In  ecstasies  no  heart  may  know 
-  That  hath  not  breathed,  that  hath  not  seen 
These  Eden  spots  elysian. 
And  when  the  orb  of  day  sheds  bright 
His  lustrous  rays  of  golden  light, 
The  purpling  arches  of  the  sky 
Unfathomed  in  their  beauty  lie; 
Where  feathery  cloudlets,  slow  of  wing, 
Float  dreamily  those  sky-seas  o'er, 
Seeking  no  port,  no  anchoring, 
Their  seas  alone  hath  not  a  shore. 
Here,  when  all  else  is  calm  and  still, 
Nightly  complains  the  whip-poor-will; 
While  on  each  breeze,  at  eve  and  morn, 
The  lily  blows  its  scented  horn. 

Soft-footed  Spring  through  Shiloh's  wood 
Came  in  her  fair  young  motherhood 
To  bless  the  earth  with  offspring  fair, 
And  peace  to  all  the  world  declare. 
All,  all  with  animation  rife 
Bespoke  the  full  high  tide  of  life. 
Fresh  flowers  and  grasses  quickly  spring 
From  out  the  brown  earth's  covering; 
The  skies  became  a  deeper  blue, 

100 


THE    ANGELS    OF   SHILOH. 

The  clouds  took  on  a  richer  hue, 

The  air  was  soft  as  mother's  kiss,        ^  t  ,\', 

Enamored  of  her  loveliness, 

While  peace  on  every  breeze  was  borne  ; 

The  waving  grass,  the  budding  thorn, 

The  opening  leaf,  the  clinging  vine 

Which  round  the  great  trees  closely  twine; 

The  blushing  rose,  the  violet  blue, 

Now  springing  up,  still  sweeter  grew 

With  smile  of  sun  and  tear  of  dew. 

Refreshing  life,  at  every  breath 

Was  on  each  breeze;  no  sign  of  death 

O'er  Nature's  lovely  form  and  face 

Could  eye  most  searching  find  a  trace, 

As  over  all  those  wooded  hills 

The  morning  sunlight  softly  streamed, 

Lighting  her  veils  and  purling  rills, 

And  on  the  river  brightly  gleamed; 

While  in  her  tented  city  sleeping, 

Thousands  of  noble  soldiers  lay, 

Who  ere  the  sun  should  set  that  day 

Would  pass  all  sorrow  and  all  weeping, 

Ere  faded  its  bright  light  away. 

Little  they  thought  in  hours  of  waking 

That  lovely  morn  would  be  their  last; 

That  while  its  peaceful  light  was  breaking, 

Death's  sombre  wing  was  o'er  them  cast. 

'Twas  eve  of  battle,  yet  no  fears 

Came  to  the  loyal  volunteers; 

No  thought  had  they  of  dangers -nigh, 

No  clouds  bedimmed  their  sunny  sky  ; 

Beguiled  with  pleasure  and  with  song, 

The  gloaming  hours  there  passed  along; 

A  peaceful  camp,  where  joy  and  mirth, 

Each  moment  found  a  welcome  birth; 

Amid  the  wooded  hills  they  lay, 

As  though  'twere  but  a  holiday. 

About  the  camp-fires,  brightly  gleaming, 

They  stories  told  of  peace  and  love, 

And  kindness  from  each  eye  was  beaming  — 

The  eagle  ruled  less  than  the  dove. 

101 


THE   ANGELS   OF   SHII.OH. 

Serenely  calm  the  silver  moon 

Betook,  h,er  way  across  the  sky, 

As  sleep,  the  blessed,  restful  boon, 

Kissed  gently  down  the  weary  eye; 

And  golden  stars  resplendent  shone 

With  gleaming  rays  upon  the  earth, 

And  soft  winds  gently,  sweetly  blown 

Told  of  the  Spring-time  floweret's  birth. 

All  nature  sought  with  peace  to  bless 

Where'er  on  earth  was  wretchedness, 

And  not  a  care  to  them  was  known  — 

God's  footstool  seemed,  that  night,  His  throne! 

'Twas  Sabbath  morn,  and  from  the  East 
The  heralds  of  her  coming  break 
Upon  the  rest  of  night,  and  wake 
Her  sleepers  there;  bid  them  away 
Before  the  hosts  of  coming  day. 

For  lo!  Aurora  rises  now, 
With  folds  of  purple  on  her  brow, 
Her  form  enwrapped  in  folds  of  light, 
Unto  the  gods  a  pleasing  sight, 
As,  with  red  sandals  shod,  lo!  she 
Comes  dripping  from  the  morning  sea, 
To  rule  the  day  in  majesty. 
Pure  as  the  soul  of  infant's  prayer 
Is  wave  of  that  sweet  morning  air  — 
The  breath  of  Spring  is  everywhere. 
All  nature  moved  by  her  sweet  kiss, 
Arrayed  in  gorgeous  loveliness, 
Mirrored  in  flower,  and  tree,  and  sod, 
The  loving  smile  of  Nature's  god. 

Sweet  Sabbath  day,  of  all  most  blessed, 
For  peace  and  prayer  and  quiet  rest; 
When  thoughts  of  love  to  fellow  man 
Affection's  fires  most  strive  to  fan; 
When  hearts  to  God  do  most  aspire 
To  banish  thoughts  of  gross  desire, 
And  nature  purify  by  prayer. 


THE    ANGERS    OF   SHII.OH, 

The  tuneful  birds  poured  forth  their  lay 

To  welcome  dawn  of  coming  day; 

With  cheery  song,  each  feathered  throat 

Poured  on  the  balmy  air,  to  float, 

Rich  notes  which  sweetly  sped  along 

A  harmony  of  pulsing  song, 

In  which  was  heard  no  note  of  pain, 

No  sad  lament,  no  weird  refrain, 

But  melody  of  joy  alone 

Was  breathed  in  every  tuneful  tone, 

Bidding  all  hearts  rejoice  again, 

As  doth  the  verdant  hill  and  plain 

In  golden  sunshine  after  rain. 

While  ashen  fingers  of  the  morn 

Were  seeking  in  the  East  to  free 

The  hills  from  mantles  they  had  worn 

Of  sombre  night's  weird  drapery, 

By  plucking  here  and  there  a  star, 

From  out  the  dome  of  Heaven's  arch, 

That  fair  Aurora  meet  no  bar 

While  sweeping  upward  in  her  march  — 

Before  her  dazzling  smile  be  given, 

To  wake  the  earth  and  light  the  heav'n, 

The  rebel  foes  their  banners  flung 

Upon  the  morning's  gloaming  air  — 

In  silence  marched  the  hills  among, 

In  solid  columns  waited  there, 

But  for  the  morning's  light  to  show 

The  path  which  lay  toward  their  foe, 

That  with  its  first  effulgent  gleams 

They  might  dash  through  the  wooded  hills, 

And  wake  to  death,  from  peaceful  dreams, 

The  camps  that  lay  by  stream  and  rills. 

The  eagles  rest  when  cloudless  skies 
O'erarch  their  lofty,  craggy  nests, 
And  balmy  winds,  like  peaceful  sighs, 
Lull  to  repose  their  powerful  breasts; 
But  when  the  tempests  madly  rise, 
And  every  power  of  earth  defies, 
Hurling  with  vengeance  through  the  air 

103 


THE   ANGELS   OF 

The  voice  of  wild  destruction  there; 
Then  rouse  they  from  their  quiet  dream, 
And  mingle  their  loud,  piercing  scream 
With  voice  of  heaven's  bursting  cloud, 
However  fierce,  and  deep,  and  loud; 
And  to  the  lightning's  gleaming  ire, 
They  answer  with  an  eye  of  fire, 
And  soar  aloft,  on  powerful  wing, 
To  meet  the  storm-king's  challenging, 
Priding  themselves  in  strength  to  prove, 
Their  power  to  mount  the  storms  above! 
So  with  the  loyal,  peaceful  men; 
When  first  the  cloud  of  war  arose, 
It  woke  the  fire  within  them  then, 
To  meet  the  nation's  deadly  foes; 
And  to  the  world  they  quickly  prove, 
No  force  so  great  as  that  of  love. 
Each  peaceful  home  proved  a  defence 
Of  greater  strength  and  consequence 
Unto  the  nation,  in  the  hour 
When  discord's  voice  broke  into  war, 
Than  standing  armies  e'er  could  be, 
Because  of  love's  true  loyalty. 

They  woke,  when  first  the  day  was  born, 
As  faintly  flushed  the  East  with  morn; 
While  opening  rose  and  budding  thorn, 

Sweet  censers  there, 

Swung  to  and  fro  with  breath  of  Spring, 
As  to  her  revelry  they  bring 
Rich  odors  which  they  freely  fling 

Upon  the  air. 

The  purpling  hue  of  coming  day 
Was  softly  turning  into  gray, 
Before  the  sun's  first  glowing  ray; 

When  from  the  South, 
In  thunder  tones  there  swift  arose 
A  voice  that  frightened  all  repose, 
The  voice  of  death,  that  fiercely  glows 

From  cannon's  mouth. 


104 


THE  ANGELS  OF  SHILOH. 

And  none  may  know  who  did  not  see 

That  awful  sight  of  misery, 

The  trials  of  those  who  fought  to  free, 

With  might  and  main, 
The  flag  to  us  our  fathers  gave, 
The  flag  that  floats  above  the  brave, 
The  flag  that  thousands  died  to  save 

From  treason's  stain. 

Amid  the  surging  billows  there, 
Death  rode  on  Terror  through  the  air, 
And  to  the  heart  brought  wild  despair 

With  every  breath; 

WThere  fell  their  loyal  comrades  'round, 
Their  hearts'  blood  dyeing  all  the  ground, 
The  sky  surcharged  with  awful  sound 

Of  woe  and  death; 
Yet,  braving  all  the  dangers  there, 
They  kept  the  Old  Flag  in  the  air. 

In  the  fore  of  the  fight  where  the  death  billows  rolled, 
And  the  crimson  flood  flowed  from  the  breast  of  the  bold, 
'Mid  the  hissing  of  bullets  and  scream  of  the  shell, 
In  the  heat  of  the  charge  where  our  loyal  men  fell, 
Where  the  peal  of  the  batteries  thundered  and  roared, 
Where  the  bayonets  clashed,  and  the  keen,  flashing  sword 
Struck  deep  to  the  hearts  of  the  noble  men  there, 
Our  loyal  boys  kept  the  Old  Flag  in  the  air. 

When  the  thunders  were  fierce,  and  the  rage  of  the  storm 
Would  cause  them  to  waver,  they  quickly  would  form 
On  a  line  where  their  colors  were  kissing  the  air, 
For  they  knew  every  able,  true  soldier  was  there 
With  a  heart  for  endeavor,  that  knew  not  a  fear, 
For  to  every  brave  soldier  the  Old  Flag  was  dear  — 
Aye,  sacred  to  him  as  the  breath  of  a  prayer, 
And  he'd  gladly  die  keeping  that  flag  in  the  air. 

Though  the  war-bees  flew  thick  with  their  sharp,  piercing  sting, 
Round  the  spot  where  it  stood,  yet  their  murderous  ring 
Deterred  not  brave  men  its  bright  folds  to  still  fly, 
A  menace  to  traitors,  high  up  in  the  <eky. 

105 


THE    ANGELS    OF    SHILOH. 

Though  they  threw  on  its  bearer  the  heat  of  their  fire, 
And  strove  it  to  humble  with  fierce,  venomed  ire; 
Though  the  hazard  was  great  the  loved  colors  to  bear, 
Yet  they  kept,  through  it  all,  the  Old  Flag  in  the  air. 

When  a  color-man  fell,  quick  another  would  seize 

The  standard,  and  fling  the  old  flag  to  the  breeze; 

No  pausing  for  danger,  no  counting  the  cost, 

A  life  was  as  nothing  to  the  flag  being  lost! 

For  as  comrades  were  fighting  its  loved  folds  to  free, 

All  over  the  land  and  all  over  the  sea, 

The  last  words  they  whispered,  as  they  fell  dying  there, 

Was:  "Boys,  keep  the  Old  Flag  still  high  in  the  air." 

No  scene  that  mortal  man  may  know 

Can  equal  that  of  charging  foe; 

And  here  it  came  with  all  of  dread 

To  which  war's  hurricane  is  wed. 

The  bravest  hearts  were  most  appalled, 

While  comrades  to  each  other  called: 
"  Wake,  brothers,  wake!  O,  wake  and  see 

The  awful  grandeur  of  the  storm ; 

The  woods,  like  billows  of  the  sea, 

Sway  back  and  forth  resistlessly ; 

Like  blades  or  grass,  lo!  every  tree 

Bows  low  its  proud  and  stately  form, 
The  leaves  before  the  fiery  blast 
In  whirling  eddies  swift  are  cast, 
And  twigs  and  limbs  are  hurling  fast, 

Borne  on  the  wild  storm's  scorching  breath, 

In  every  movement  speaking  death." 

While  swarming  thick  the  war  bee's  wing 
To  every  spot  their  deadly  sting  ; 
The  sky  is  darkened  by  the  breath 
Of  these  wild  messengers  of  death, 
While  ears  are  dumb  to  every  sound, 
Save  that  of  war,  which  all  around 
Leaps  through  the  terror-stricken  air, 
As  all  its  voices,  fierce,  declare 
The  reign  of  Terror  everywhere. 

1 06 


THE   ANGELS   OF   SHILOH. 

See,  from  the  edge  of  yonder  wood 
Ten  thousand  gleaming  blades  of  steel  ! 
With  charging  yell,  that  chills  the  blood, 
The  enemy's  great  columns  wheel, 
And  dashing  down  the  steep  incline, 
With  all  of  mortal  power  combine. 
To  drive  from  out  their  chosen  stand 
Our  comrades'  brave  and  loyal  band. 
WThat!  have  they  fled  ?  is  no  defence 
Now  to  be  made  against  the  foe  ? 
Gods  !  what  a  sound  the  heavens  rend! 
From  center  to  circumference, 
The  trembling  earth  rocks  to  and  fro, 
As  wild  Destruction's  forces  blend 
In  one  appalling  burst  of  woe  ! 

See  !  See  !  they  fall  and  helpless  writhe, 
As  grass  before  the  reaper's  scythe. 
WTith  all  of  human  strength  and  power, 
They  are  but  dry  reeds  in  this  hour, 
Before  the  raging  battle's  tide, 
Which  seems  to  grow  more  deep  and  wide, 
W7ith  flash  of  sword,  and  roar  of  gun, 
As  though  the  Fates  would  soon  decide  : 
The  victory  be  lost  or  won. 

Mars,  in  his  chariot  of  fire, 

Now  madly  dashes  wildly  on, 

As  with  a  scowl  of  vengeful  ire, 

He  plies  his  scourge  with  fierce  desire, 

The  raging  tempest  to  outrun! 

While  Flight  and  Terror  madly  fly 

Across  the  smoke-beclouded  sky, 

Leaping  affrighted  through  the  air, 

While,  flowing  out  behind,  his  hair 

Is  fanned  to  streaming  shreds  of  flame, 

As  on,  still  on,  they  swiftly  dash 

Amid  the  deafening  roar  and  crash, 

\Vhere  Pity  lives,  but  in  a  name. 

All  helpless  'neath  their  powerful  feet, 

They  trample,  crush,  in  sore  defeat, 

And  render  Pluto's  reign  complete, 

107 


THE    ANGELS   OF    SHILOH. 

As  to  destruction  quick  are  hurl'd 

All  things  that  would  oppose, 

And,  terror-stricken,  from  the  world 

Escape,  alone  in  death,  his  foes. 

His  form  was  like  storm-clouds  at  night, 

And  ruin  was  his  soul's  delight; 

His  breath  \vas  death  to  all  the  land, 

Deep  woe  his  footsteps  e'er  attend; 

While  nations  trembled,  empires  fell, 

For  all  his  ways  turn  peace  to  hell  ! 

Hark  to  the  screaming  of  the  shell, 
As  through  the  wood  it  onward  flies; 
Mark  the  wild  havoc  w?here  it  fell  — 
All  life  around  it  withered  lies. 
Another,  and  another,  see, 
Striking  of  sound  the  highest  key, 
In  war's  wild  song  of  jubilee. 
The  solid  shot  goes  crashing  on 
With  wild,  terrific,  awful  force, 
Blasting  within  its  murderous  course 
All  here  beneath  the  smiling  sun. 
Hark  to  the  groaning  of  the  trees! 
As  'neath  the  wound  of  cannon  ball, 
Like  withered  grass  before  the  breeze, 
They  snap  and  in  confusion  fall. 

Here,  'midst  the  storm  of  battle,  stood 
Love's  sweet  expression  — womanhood. 
Strong  in  affection's  powerful  might, 
Unshrinking  at  the  awful  sight, 
Through  lonely  hours  of  dreary  night, 
As  with  the  soul  of  love  imbued, 
She  shrank  not  at  the  sight  of  blood. 
With  Beauty's  form  and  Love's  sweet  face, 
Combining  with  the  purest  grace, 
All  human  strength  and  loveliness. 
Aye!    more  than  human  love  we  see, 
The  soul  of  woman's  sympathy 
Is  Heaven's  true  Divinity; 
And  to  the  wounded  soldier  there, 
Who  on  that  battle  field  was  lying, 

108 


THE    ANGELS  OF   SHILOH. 

She  came,  an  angel  pure  and  fair, 

To  sooth  his  troubled  heart  when  dying. 

If  each  could  speak  again  to-day, 

They  would  rejoice  with  me  to  say  : 

The  hand  of  woman,  oh,  how  sweet, 

Upon  the  battle-field  to  meet; 

Her  voice  is  music  to  the  soul, 

Her  touch  is  balm  for  every  pain, 

The  surges  cease  within  to  roll, 

At  her  command  peace  smiles  again. 

A  prayer  ascended  on  each  breath, 

That  sweet  relief  might  come  in  death  ; 

For  death  to  them  a  boon  would  be, 

Compared  to  this  deep  misery; 

P'or  spirit  of  the  Raven  Wing 

Alone  hath  now  the  power  to  bring 

Relief  from  such  dire  suffering. 

Oh!  must  life's  fluid,  drop  by  drop, 

Ooze  from  their  wounds  until  it  stop, 

For  that  the  fount  of  life  be  dry, 

And  pale  the  lip  and  glazed  the  eye  ? 

Must  every  sense  of  heart  and  brain 

Be  tortured  to  its  highest  strain, 

And  all  the  agony  and  woe, 

That  human  heart  may  ever  know, 

Be  wrung  from  out  the  tortured  frames, 

Which  burn  with  all  the  hellish  flames 

That  human  agony  can  give, 

And  yet  the  wretched  victims  live  ? 

Unconsciousness  at  times  was  given, 

Arid  with  it  came  a  glimpse  of  Heaven. 

Visions  of  cool  and  shady  dells, 

Where  bloomed  the  scented  pampernells, 

O'erhung  with  cypress  and  with  vine, 

Whose  leaves  and  tendrils  intertwine 

And  form,  beneath  the  brazen  sky, 

A  sweet  and  pleasant  canopy, 

Where,  stealing  from  the  moss-grown  nook, 

Laughing  in  merry,  gleeful  mood, 

Comes  gushing  the  refreshing  brook, 

109 


THE   ANGELS   OF   SHILOH. 

Which  glides  away  amid  the  wood. 
Could  heaven  give  to  earth  its  bliss, 
For  these  poor  souls,  it  would  be  this. 
When  senses  fade,  the  pain  grows  less, 
By  reason  of  unconsciousness, 
Which,  stealing  o'er  the  weary  brain, 
Relieves  them  of  their  racking  pain. 

Poor,  suffering  souls,  never  again 

Shall  love's  sweet  gleaming  smile  repay 

Thy  hearts  for  this  deep,  bitter  pain, 

That  racks  thy  helpless  forms  to-day  ; 

No  more  shall  love's  bright,  golden  head, 

Be  pillowed  on  each  manly  breast, 

To-morrow's  sun  shall  find  thee  dead, 

Thy  troubled  forms  shall  be  at  rest, 

Beneath  the  damp  and  quiet  sod, 

While  wings  thy  spirits  on  to  God; 

Yes  on,  still  on,  forever  on  ! 

For,  unto  the  immortal  soul, 

Heaven,  for  aye,  shall  be  a  dawn, 

While  vast  Eternity  shall  roll. 

When  mortal  sense  had  closed,  their  eyes 

Beheld  the  glow  of  Paradise; 

A  glory,  which  no  human  soul 

Can  know  or  see, 

Till  kindly,  Death  shall  backward  roll 

Mortality. 

And  then  their  souls,  wTith  sense  unrolled. 

Developed  twice  ten-thousandfold, 

Their  upward  flight,  from  star  to  star, 

'Mid  luminous  depths  of  radiance  far, 

Shall  find  their  ever  widening  sense 

A  center  still,  while  all  around, 

To  growing  sight  and  waking  sound, 

Is  measureless  circumference. 

As  on,  still  on,  they  upward  glide, 
The  gates  of  Heaven  still  open  wide, 
And  as  they  freely  backward  swing, 
They  hear  the  gladsome  voices  ring 


THE   ANGELS   OF   SHILOH. 

A  welcome,  in  sweet  unison, 
From  angels  brighter  than  the  sun, 
Whose  gleaming  forms  of  radiant  light, 
Would  blind  and  dazzle  mortal  sight. 

There  all  that  human  love  had  known, 

Had  to  celestial  beauty  grown; 

Each  thing  of  beauty  on  the  earth, 

Is  given  there  immortal  birth. 

The  birds,  the  flowers,  the  lakes,  and  rills, 

All  things,  the  heart  with  gladness  fills. 

The  thought  of  age,  the  form  of  youth, 

The  love  of  beauty,  and  of  truth, 

There  grows  and  widens  with  each  breath, 

And  nothing  knows  or  thinks  of  death; 

For  over  his  dread  skeleton 

They  each  and  all  have  victory  won. 

Hope  holds  not  out  a  promise  vain, 

No  thought  can  come  of  grief  or  pain, 

Their  sun  of  joy  shall  never  set, 

Ne'er  fall  the  shadow  of  regret; 

But  light,  and  bliss,  and  peace  is  there, 

With  all  that  renders  life  most  fair, 

Added  to  Imortality, 

Their  every  gift  the  gods  have  given, 

With  ample  power  and  liberty, 

To  taste  the  sweetest  joys  of  Heaven. 

On,  on  with  easy  motion  grace, 

They  wing  their  way  through  azure  space, 

While  soft  winds,  laden  with  perfume, 

Caught  from  celestial  flowers  that  bloom 

In  spirit  gardens  of  the  free, 

To  gladden  Immortality, 

Reveal  new  beauties  as  they  rise, 

And  Heaven  prove  one  glad  surprise. 

In  that  bright  land  of  radiant  bliss, 

Where  all  is  joy  and  loveliness, 

WThere  peace  and  purity  are  born, 

And  glows  for  aye  the  flush  of  morn, 

With  beaming  rays  of  light  forever, 

That  form  a  glist'ning,  pulsing  sea, 


in 


THE   ANGELS   OF   SHILOH. 

Upon  whose  bosom,  shining  ever, 
Flow  waves  of  sweetest  melody. 
Bathed  in  celestial  beauty  there 
The  mountains  rise  the  sky  to  kiss, 
While  that  soft,  balmy,  ambient  air 
Is  angels'  breath,  compared  to  this ; 
While  on  the  Tree  of  Life  there  grows, 
Rich  fruits,  which  every  bough  is  bending; 
Which  burden  every  wind  that  blows 
W7ith  sweetest  odors  of  their  lending  ; 
A  perfect  sweetness  to  the  store 
Of  all  the  lovely  offerings  given, 
By  all  the  gods  who  freely  pour, 
Their  richest  bounties  into  Heaven. 
And  music,  sweet  of  glory,  fills 
All  airy  space  and  gently  trills, 
Through  the  illimitable  dome, 
Wherever  space  or  substance  roam, 
To  every  part,  where'er  it  lie, 
Of  measureless  Eternity. 

As  sunlight  fills  our  sky  at  day, 
And  beams  with  soft  and  pulsing  ray, 
Beyond,  above  all  human  sight, 
Or  sense  of  sound,  its  melody, 
Flows  in  rich  waves  there  constantly. 
While  onward  still  their  starry  flight, 
Beyond  the  shadows  of  the  night, 
They  swift  pursue  their  upward  way, 
To  Heaven's  light  of  endless  day. 
Through  constellation  of  the  sun 
Their  speedy  flight   is  quickly  run, 
Through  gleams  of  light  thrown  from  afar, 
Then  through  the  shadow  of  a  star, 
The  one  called  day,  the  other  night, 
To  mortals'  dim,  contracted  sight  ; 
Their  visions  widen  and  they  see 
And  understand  all  mystery. 

Millions  of  worlds  above,  below, 
Within  their  circling  orbits  go, 
Through  purpling  mists  of  airy  sea, 

112 


THE    ANGELS    OF   SHII.OH. 

Moving  in  perfect   harmony; 

And  thus  have  moved  through  countless  years, 

To  pulsing  music  of  the  spheres. 

Through  vast  expanse  of  endless  space, 

Unknown,  unbound,  and  measureless; 

Through  fields  of  bright,  eternal  day, 

They  still  pursue  their  onward  way. 

Oh,  pure  and  sweet  is  everything, 
The  flowers  that  bloom,  the  birds  that  sing, 
The  soul  that  wakes  to  life  the  leaf, 
Which  ne'er  shall  know  a  fading  grief. 
The  winds  that  softly,  sweetly  blow, 
The  low  voiced  rivers'  peaceful  flow; 
The  friendly  grasp  of  love's  warm  hand, 
That  long  has  passed    from  mortal  land; 
Ten  thousand  joys  that  only  rise, 
Within  the  gates  of  Paradise, 
Come  to  their  ever  waking  sense 
With  touch  so  thrilling  and  intense, 
That  every  breath  was  sweetest  bliss, 
Unto  the  hungry,  waking  soul, 
As  lovers'  sweet,  fond  virgin  kiss, 
In  waves  of  pleasure  o'er  them  roll. 

Beautiful  world  where  is  no  gloom, 
No  death,  no  sorrow,  and  no  tomb, 
No  pain,  no  sickness,  and  no  tears, 
No  woe,  no  bitterness,  no  fears, 
No  wars,  no  envyings,  no  strife, 
But  sweet  and  peaceful  is  the  life 
Of  all  who  pass  its  gates  within, 
Absolved  from  every  touch  of  sin; 
Where  love,  and  joy,  and  peace  divine, 
To  crowTn  life's  pleasures  all  combine; 
The  gentle  music  of  the  spheres, 
Keep  time  with  golden  flood  of  years, 
And  newer,  deeper  pleasures  rise, 
As  God  reveals  some  new  surprise. 
Still  on  they  upward  rise,  and  see 
The  beauties  of  life's  mystery; 


THE    ANGELS    OF   SHII.OH. 

The  human  heart,  its  doubts  and  fears, 

Its  joys,  its  sorrows,  and  its  tears, 

Its  virtues,  and  its  troubling  sins, 

And  all  without  us  and  within, 

Why  we  are  weak,  and  blind,  and  chained, 

Is  fully  to  all  there  explained. 

Then  for  the  dead,  why  mourn  and  weep? 
Their  life  is  sweeter  far  than  sleep, 
For  to  their  souls  alone  is  given 
The  power  to  taste  the  joys  of  Heaven. 
We  should  but  weep  for  those  who  still 
Bear  yet  life's  burdens  up  the  hill  ; 
The  lone,  and  blind,  and  halt,  and  poor, 
Who  wait  the  swinging  of  death's  door, 
That  shall  admit  them  into  rest, 
From  this  life's  mournful  wretchedness. 

Down  in  a  glen,  where  a  willow  tree  bending 

Over  the  banks  of  a  brooklet  below, 

Lay  a  young  soldier  who  fell  in  defending 

The  stars  and  the  stripes  from  the  hand  of  the  foe; 

Fell  with  a  murderous  wound  in  his  breast, 

From  out  which  his  life-blood  gushed  into  the  stream, 

Moaned,  as  the  sun  slowly  sunk  to  the  West, 

And  knew  it  was  saying  "farewell"  with  its  gleam. 

He  thought  :    "I  shall  die  by  this  brook  all  alone, 

And  no  one  shall  know  of  my  fate  evermore. 

Could  I  hear  one  kind  voice • — -one  loved  human  tone  — 

I  ask  of  the  gods  but  this  one  favor  more, 

To  send  to  my  mother  one  fond,  loving  kiss, 

And  a  lock,  if  I  might,  of  this  tangled  hair, 

To  tell  her  how  much  her  sweet  smile  I  miss, 

And  how  I  now  long  for  her  true,  loving  care; 

I  would  willingly  die,  content  to  have  given 

My  life  for  my  country,  my  God,  and  my  heaven." 

Just  then,  as  in  answer  unto  his  low  sighing, 

There  came  a  soft  footstep,  and  down  by  his  side 

There  knelt  a  fair  woman,  who  saw  he  was  dying, 

To  comfort  his  soul  in  its  sorrow  she  tried. 

114 


THE    ANGELS    OF    SHILOH. 

vShe  saw  by  his  fast-dimming  eye 

That  death's  approach  was  very  nigh; 

His  mortal  sun  was  sinking  low, 

His  spirit  struggled  now  to  free 

Itself  from  prison  bars  below, 

And  fly  to  Immortality. 

He  roused  him  then,  as  from   a  dream, 

As  fell  the  day's  departing  gleam, 

And  said  to  her:    "I  feel,  and  know, 

My  spirit  hence  must  shortly  go; 

But  ere  it  passes  quite  away 

From  mortal  life,  I  fain  would  say 

One  parting  word  for  those  I  love, 

My  heart's  devotion  still  to  prove 

Constant  as  yon  bright  gleaming  star, 

Whose  ray,  undimmed,  shines  on  forever, 

Though  mortal  senses  changing  are 

As  wavelets  on  yon  rolling  river. 

"Tell  my  father  and  my  mother, 
That  their  pride  shall  ever  be 
That  I  died,  like  many  another 
Loyal  son,  for  liberty. 
Tell  my  brother  and  my  sister, 
Should  you  e'er  on  earth  them  meet, 
That  I  died  with  Heaven's  vista, 
Glowing  brightly  at   my  feet ; 
And  that  death  no  terrors  brought  me, 
As  I  yielded  up  my  breath, 
That  its  throbbing,  soulful,  bright  sea, 
Brought  me  not  a  chilling  death. 


"But  to  her,  my  love,  I  fear  it 
Will  for  her  be  lone  and  drear, 
It  will  kill  her  now  to  hear  it  ; 
She  whose  cheek  has  known  no  tear, 
Save  the  tear  she  shed  at  parting, 
And  whose  heart  has  known  no  pain, 
Save  the  pain,  that  through  it  darting 
With  thought,  I  might  not  come  again. 


THE    ANGELS    OF    SHILOH. 

"  Sweet  lady,  could  I  speak  again 
To  her  the  thoughts  which  rend  my  heart, 
'Twould  be  that  she  might  know  no  pain  — 
Not  e'en  the  shade  of  sorrow's  dart. 

"I  would  that  life  for  her  might  be 
As  peaceful  as  a  Summer  sea, 
WThere  soft  winds  breathing  with  the  tide 
Should  woo  her  ship  to  smoothly  glide, 
With  easy  motioned  swan-like  grace, 
Where  clouds  of  storm  should  ne'er  displace 
The  mirrored  smile  of  Heaven's  face. 
Oh,  may  she  feel  my  presence  there, 
Though  viewless  in  the  quiet  air, 
For  by  the  hope  of  Heaven  above 
I  will  return  and  dwell  with  her, 
Proving  that  power  of  human  love 
Defies  the  gloomy  sepulcher. 

"Tell  her  in  hope  to  calmly  gaze 
Upon  yon  bright  and  gleaming  star, 
Through  purpling  mists  its  golden  rays 
Speak  of  the  glories  from  afar. 
Tell  her  that  soon  the  storm  of  grief 
Shall  pass  away,  and  sweet  relief 
Shall  fill  her  soul  as  sorrow  dies, 
At  thought  of  love's  sweet  memories. 
Tell  her,  I  sorrow  for  my  fate, 
Alone  for  that  it  doth  relate 
Unto  her  own,  and  thus  should  be 
To  her  one  thought  of  misery. 

"  I  fain  would  live  to  feel  and  know 
The  perfect  joy  of  loving  so, 
When  I  might  shield  from  every  storm 
Her  gentle  heart  and  angel  form. 
And  say  that  her  sweet  words  of  love 
Have  helped  me  bear  this  bitter  pain, 
That  her  inspiring  spirit  strove 
And  nerved  my  arm  to  strike  again! 
If  I  have  won  a  crown  of  fame, 
It  should  bear  her  inspiring  name; 
To  her  alone  let  praise  be  sung, 

116 


THE    AXGELS    OF    SHIIyOH. 

On  her  the  purple  robe  be  flung; 
For,  by  the  gods!  I  swear  'twas  she 
Who  led  the  charge  to  victory! 

"  No  power  to  mortal  man  is  known, 
From  God's  green  footstool  to  His  throne, 
That  can  compare  in  force,  or  prove 
An  equal  power  to  woman's  love. 
It  was,  it  is,  shall  be  my  sun, 
'Til  sands  of  life  are  fully  run; 
If  it  continue  not  to  be 
I  wish  not  immortality." 

His  voice  grew  weak,  he  faintly  smiled, 
As  though  some  thought  his  pain  beguiled, 
As,  stealing  gently  through  his  brain, 
'Twould  woo  him  back  to  life  again. 
But  no;  the  curtains  of  his  eyes 
Are  slowly,  gently  drooping  down; 
His  head  upon  her  bosom  lies, 
Her  ringlets  form  a  golden  crown 
Around  that  radiant  face  and  brow, 
Which  glow  with  soul-kissed  beauty  now. 
Behold!  he  starts!  his  eager  sight 
Expressing  wonder  and  delight, 
As  if  beholding  some  glad  scene. 
He  cries:    "  She  comes,  my  own,  loved  queen! " 
In  joyful  tones,  he  echoes  o'er, 
"  She  comes,  my  own,  forever  more!  " 
His  soul  then  found  a  sweet  release, 
And  o'er  his  form  stole  perfect  peace. 

And  it  was  true;  the  very  hour 
His  soul  withdrew  from  mortal  power, 
The  maiden  of  his  bosom's  choice, 
As  if  her  soul  had  heard  his  voice 
Calling  it  then  from  earth  away, 
Unlocked  its  prison  house  of  clay; 
And,  sweetly  thus,  they  hand  in  hand 
Strayed  into  Heaven's  holy  land. 
Then  glancing  o'er  the  battle  ground, 
With  manly  forms  all  thickly  strewn, 

117 


THE   ANGELS   OF   SHILOH. 

She  wept  to  think  that  death  had  found 
A  cause  to  blight  them  at  their  noon. 
And  weeping  o'er  the  loyal  dead, 
These  words  of  sad  lament  she  said  : 

"  Farewell,  brave  souls,  forever  rest 
In  fields  of  light,  supremely  blessed, 
Beyond  the  power  of  pain  or  grief, 
Where  finds  the  soul  a  sweet  relief, 
Amid  the  joys  around  God's  throne, 
Where  only  peace  and  love  are  known; 
Where  sorrow's  shadows  ne'er  can  come 
To  mar  that  bright  celestial  home; 
Where  false,  delusive  hope  no  more 
Shall  rise  to  beck  thee  from  the  shore, 
And  lure  thee  on  the  ocean's  wave, 
With  promise  false  as  Siren's  song, 
And  bring  thee  to  an  early  grave 
Kre  thy  pure  hearts  hath  known  a  wrong. 

"  Farewell  to  thee,  a  fond  farewell, 
For  joys  await  thy  spirits  there; 
I  would  not  hold  thee  here  to  dwell 
Amid  this  pestilential  air. 
For  when  I  look  upon  the  earth, 
And  see  the  wretchedness  and  woe, 
I  would  withdraw  the  power  of  birth, 
And  deem  man  blessed  in  doing  so. 
Eternal  sleep  a  boon  would  be  — 
A  pure  and  calm,  unbroken  sea, 
Wherein  no  life  should  wake  again, 
If  with  it  came  remorse  and  pain. 
Oh!  better  this,  far  better,  far, 
Than  life  with  dreadful  scenes  of  war!  " 

Here  stagnant  pools  of  water  creep, 
And  wretched  hearts  in  sorrow  weep, 
As  all  the  ills  the  heart  may  know 
Are  blended  in  one  hell  of  woe, 
Where  black  despair  e'er  hovers  o'er 
The  sea  of  night  without  a  shore; 
Wher.e  deadly  serpents  crawl  and  hiss 
In  all  their  loathsome  hideousness. 


118 


THE    ANGELS   OF   SHILOII. 

Here  misery  the  heart  appalls, 

And  gleam  of  sunlight  never  falls; 

Or,  if  it  falls,  its  cheerfulness, 

Contrasted  with  this  deep  distress, 

Makes  misery  nigh  measureless. 

Oh,  dreadful  scene!  how  sadness  flings 

Her  dewy  mantle  from  her  wings, 

Like  mist  her  veils  of  sorrow  fall, 

And  mournfully  each  waking  strain 

Sobs  in  its  weirdness  over  all, 

As  though  no  thought  could  cheer  again. 

The  very  rays  of  tim'rous  light, 

Seem  loth  to  pierce  the  shroud  of  night, 

And  with  their  power  to  sight  reveal, 

To  hearts  that  yet  can  mourn,  and  feel 

The  horrors  of  this  scene  around, 

Where  death  has  walked  the  battle  ground; 

A  blasted  garden,  fearful  doom  ! 

For  all  its  wondrous  flowers  had  shed 

Their  every  blossom,  and  the  tomb 

Of  winter  over  them  had  spread 

Its  howling  tempest,  and  its  kiss 

Had  wrought  with  fierce  destructiveness. 

Oh,  Hellish  war!  thy  footsteps  know 
No  tread  save  on  the  human  heart, 
From  which  the  crimson  wine  must  flow 
To  feed  thy  black  and  cruel  art; 
Thou  livest  but  on  death  and  pain, 
And  fiercely  drink  warm  human  blood, 
And  toast  thy  health  full  oft  again 
From  out  the  heart's  warm  crimson  flood, 
And  laugh  when  thy  poor  victims  lie 
Writhing  in  mortal  agony  ; 
Thou  seasonest  thy  wine  with  tears, 
From  widows'  torn  and  bleeding  hearts, 
And  scoff  at  helpless  orphans'  fears, 
While  sharper  grow  thy  cruel  darts; 
Till  every  crime  beneath  the  sun 
That  Hell  may  furnish,  man  may  know, 
In  thy  dread  name  alone  may  run 
In  one  great,  surging  sea  of  woe. 

119 


THE   LOVERS  OF   SHILOH. 


HEN  Peace,  sweet  angel,  ruled  the  land, 
And  showered  her  gifts  on  every  hand, 
Of  jeweled  moments  for  each  hour 
And  every  hour  of  all  the  day, 
Pregnant  with  richness  and  with  power, 
Rolled  on  beneath  her  magic  sway, 
She  scattered  there  for  each  and  all 
Love's  magic  wreath  and  coronal. 
And  falling  o'er  the  peaceful  scene, 
A  wreath  of  flowers  and  myrtle  green 
Adorned  a  bosom,  sweet  as  May, 
And  'neath  her  ardent  glances  lay. 
There,  blushing  deep,  the  passion  rose, 
Upon  this  maiden's  bosom  lying, 
Sought  all  its  fragrance  to  disclose 
Unto  her  heart,  while  it  was  dying. 
Kissing  the  rose,  her  lovely  lips 
Blushed  red,  while  thrilled  her  finger  tips, 
As  through  her  gentle  bosom  warm 
Arose  sweet  passion's  heaving  storm, 
As  all  around  her,  everywhere, 
Sweet  incense  rose  upon  the  air; 
The  magic  odor  Cupid  flings 
Upon  us,  from  his  downy  wings, 
When  first  we  hear,  so  faint  and  low, 
The  twanging  of  his  magic  bow, 
Or,  mark  the  flutter  of  the  heart 
When  first  'tis  pierced  by  his  dart. 
So  sweet  Arzelia  heard  and  felt, 
When  like  a  spotless,  snowT-white  dove 

120 


THE    COVERS   OF   SHILOH. 

Waking  within  her  bosom  dwelt 
The  image  of  her  loyal  love. 
To  souls  like  hers  there  come  at  times, 
Visions  of  brighter,  purer  climes; 
Voices  that  speaking  from  the  air 
A  higher  life  than  this  declare; 
Discoursing  in  a  sweeter  tone 
Than  to  the  common  mortal  known, 
Music  so  soft,  so  sweet,  and  low, 
The  cadence  of  its  rippling  flow 
Wakes  not,  though  falling  on  our  ear, 
The  power  within  our  souls  to  hear. 
To  eyes  like  her's  there  often  rise, 
The  beauties  bright  of  Paradise. 
To  her  this  power  was  freely  given 
For  she  was  less  of  earth  than  Heaven. 

And  full  oft  "her  high-born  kinsmen"  clustered  round  her  in  the  air, 
Peopling  all  her  lovely  visions  with  sweet  radiant  forms  most  fair, 
And  the  waving  of  their  pinions  seemed  to  rustle  round  and  o'er, 
As  the  future  life  seemed  swinging  wide  to  her  its  mystic  door. 

When  Autumn  winds  in  sighing  strewed  the  ground  with  withered  leaves, 
And  all  nature  sobbing  faintly  o'er  the  death  of  Summer  grieves, 
And  the  Gheber's  god  in  splendor  slowly  to  the  Westward  rolls, 
She  walked  alone  with  spirits  and  held  converse  sweet  with  souls. 

And  the  gladness  on  the  features  of  the  loved  ones  that  return, 
Seemed  to  lift  the  clouds  of  sadness,  seemed  to  cool  the  flames  that  burn, 
And  to  fill  her  soul  with  rapture,  while  the  radiance  round  her  glows, 
As  she  listened  to  the  music,  which  from  souls  redeemed  flows. 

Behold  how  lovely,  graceful,  free, 

This  pledge  of  immortality; 

Pure  woman  straight  from  Paradise, 

Whose  glance  from  soulful,  waking  eyes, 

Tells  of  the  love  that  in  them  lies; 

Immortal,  far  the  greater  part, 

The  mortal  heaven's  wondrous  art, 

Imperishable  glory  there, 

Caught  from  the  upper  fields  of  air; 

The  soul,  the  light,  the  life,  the  love, 

121 


THE   LOVERS   OF   SHILOH. 

All  aspirations  from  above, 
Which  tend  to  lead  us  up  and  on 
To  immortality's  bright  dawn; 
Pledge  of  affection,  pure  and  free, 
Immortal  in  mortality. 
And  on  a  king  of  human  kind 
Love's  brilliant,  flashing  coronal 
Was  placed  to  brighten  all  his  mind, 
As  o'er  his  life  its  bright  rays  fall. 
Then  they  two  met,  and  knew  the  earth 
Held  not  a  joy  of  passing  worth, 
Unless  its  pleasures  hence  should  be 
Enjoyed  by  them  in  unity. 
All  earth  was  bright,  the  sweet  birds  sung 
To  them  a  purer  melody, 
As  waves  of  liquid  music  flung 
From  bosom  of  some  mystic  sea 
That  kiss  and  murmur  to  the  shore, 
And,  in  sweet  accents,  o'er  and  o'er 
Their  tale  of  love  do  constant  pour 
.  Through  golden  years  eternally. 
And  each  to  each  was  breath  of  flowers, 
And  when  apart  Old  Time  became 
Decrepit,  blind,  and  halt,  and  lame, 
And,  heavy  shod  with  lead,  his  feet 
Seemed  motionless,  and  some  few  hours 
For  him  to  measure  out  complete 
Were  to  their  hearts  full  rounded  years, 
With  Spring  of  laughter,  hope  and  tears, 
And  Summer's  sunny  settled  weather, 
And  Autumn's  premonition,  whether 
The  golden  circlet  of  their  love 
Would  shelter  'gainst  stern  Winter  prove. 

As  sparkling  streams  from  distant  hills 
Meet  in  the  valleys  at  their  feet, 
And  all  the  air  with-  music  fills 
With  cheerful  murmurs  as  they  meet, 
And  there  unite,  fore'er  to  run, 
Two  brilliant  streams  join  into  one. 
So  with  their  love;  it  flowed  so  sweet 
That  every  day  of  all  the  year 

122 


THE    LOVERS   OK  SHILOH. 

Fresh  flowers  and  grasses  'neatk  their  feet 

Sprang  ever  brightly,  and  no  tear 

Of  sorrow  came  to  dim  their  way, 

And  life  to  them  was  always  May, 

And  every  sound  a  low  love-tune, 

With  blooming  flowers  and  breath  of  June. 

And  how  or  why  a  chilling  cloud 

Should  drift  across  their  perfect  sky 

I  doubt  if  they  —  leastwise  not  I  — 

Could  ever  tell;  but  so  it  came, 

And  angry  flashes  of  hot  flame 

Burst  o'er  them,  and  the  air  grew  chill, 

And  bitter  words  were  quickly  said; 

For  indignation's  angry  thrill 

Filled  both  their  hearts  ere  it  had  fled; 

And  then  they  parted  hastily, 

Each  being  from  the  other  free. 

Then,  in  the  heat  of  passion's  flame, 

He  wrote  upon  the  list  his  name 

As  one  of  those  who  gave  their  all 

In  answer  to  their  country's  call  — 

And  in  a  day  his  regiment 

Into  the  battle  line  was  sent. 

Heavy  his  heart,  and  troubled  clouds  arose, 
Bereaving  him  of  rest  and  all  repose  — 
The  bitter  thorn  of  life  eclipsed  the  rose. 
And  not  a  breath  of  sweetness  for  him  there 
Floated  upon  the  balmy  Spring-time  air; 
The  song  of  birds  was  harshness  to  his  ear, 
And  every  gem  of  joy  was  sorrow's  tear; 
The  hum  of  bees  was  sadness,  and  the  leaf 
Rustled  but  to  the  melody  of  grief. 
All  things  the  heart  could  feel,  the  eye  could  see, 
Mirrored  for  him  his  soul's  deep  agony; 
More  deep  than  human  hearts  can  ever  know, 
That  hath  not  known  a  lover's  grief  and  woe, 
Or,  felt  the  torture  of  the  flames  that  burn 
While  longing  to,  and  yet,  will  not  return, 
Because  of  pride,  the  haughty  sentinel, 
Whose  mischief  once  turned  heaven  into  hell, 
If  strictly  true  this  be,  not  holy  writ, 
It  dragged  the  angels  down  to  people  it. 

123 


THE    LOVERS    OF   SHILOH. 

Pride  is  a  prickly  bush  on  which  there  grows 
A  thousand  thorns  to  one  pale  stunted  rose; 
If  this  you'd  pluck,  the  chances  are  you'd  fall, 
When  it  you've  grasped,  lo,  find  no  rose  at  all, 
But  faded  leaves  at  last,  as  you  draw  near 
All  odorless,  at  best  a  painted  sneer. 

So  Edgar  found,  when  angered  with  his  love, 
There  rose  within  his  bosom  thorns  which  prove 
Sharper  than  all  the  thorns  that  ever  grew 
Upon  the  rose  or  thistle,  and  he  knew 
Cupid  a  valiant  knight  who  would  not  run, 
But  with  fierce  vengeance  fight  when  trod  upon. 
Rendering  life  a  desert,  waste  and  bare, 
With  sky  o'ercast  with  clouds  of  black  despair, 
From  out  whose  bosom  sounds  of  discord  rose 
And  chilling  breath  of  terror  fiercely  blows, 
Driving  all  thoughts  of  peace  from  out  the  breast, 
Denying  to  the  soul  its  cry  for  rest. 
Bright  visions  of  the  past  he  oft  would  see, 
That  live,  alas,  alone  in  memory; 
Will  ever  live,  so  fresh,  and  bright,  and  green, 
A  sad  reminder  of  what  might  have  been. 

Thus  tortured,  poor  Edgar  pressed  restlessly  on 

From  morning  till  evening,  from  evening  till  dawn, 

'Til  nearing  a  river  whose  bright  waters  free 

Flowed  eagerly  onward,  to  join  the  great  sea; 

When  rosy-lipped  morning,  with  soft  footsteps  stealing, 

Came  on  from  the  eastward  in  glory  again, 

The  wonderful  beauty  and  freshness  revealing 

Of  earth  to  the  sight  of  the  children  of  men. 

Thus  Edgar  beheld  Shiloh's  valleys  and  hills, 

The  fairest  the  gods  to  the  earth  ever  gave; 

Like  pure  molten  silver  her  murmuring  rills 

Flashed  back  to  the  sun  a  bright  smile  from  each  wave. 

Like  a  bridal  veil  shining,  the  shimmering  mist 

Floated  back  from  her  features  when  morning  first  kissed, 

With  ruby  lips  tender,  her  beautiful  face, 

Revealing  the  splendor,  the  ease,  and  the  grace 

Of  her  beautiful  form,  in  queenly  robes  dressed, 

124 


THE   LOVERS   OF  SHILOH. 

Be  jeweled  with  diamonds  all  over  her  breast, 
Which  glittered  and  sparkled  as  though  every  one 
Were  a  miniature  day- god  thrown  off  by  the  sun. 

Bedecked  with  bright  flowers,  deep  crimson,  and  white, 
While  some  had  unfolded  their  bloom  in  the  Night, 
And  catching  the  folds  of  her  drapery  there 
Had  wound  it  about  them  forever  to  wear. 

Here  Nature  her  features  had  wreathed  in  bright  smiles, 
And  o'er  her  fair  form  a  rich  mantle  had  flung; 
All  covered  with  mosses,  her  rocky  defiles 
With  manifold  voices  of  sweet  music  rung. 
The  sound  of  her  laughter  in  sweet  cadence  rose 
From  silver-toned  brooklets,  that  spurning  repose 
On  clover-decked  high-lands,  with  silvery  gleam 
Flashed  back  the  warm  kiss  of  the  sun's  golden  beam, 
As  down  the  bright  hill-sides  they  leapt  in  their  glee 
To  join  the  great  waves  of  the  swift  Tennessee. 

Within  the  deep  woods,  which  o'ershadow  her  hills, 
And  curtain  the  sky  from  the  valleys  below, 
A  city  of  war  all  her  grassy  sward  fills 
Whose  white-tented  dwellings  resplendently  glow 
'Neath  rays  of  bright  sunshine  which,  dancing  around, 
Weave  dark  leafy  patterns  all  over  the  ground. 
While  orioles  flitting,  where  deep  shadows  are  rolled, 
In  cool,  shady  nooks,  where  affrighted  the  Night 
Lay  trembling  with  terror  before  the  Sun's  light, 
WTere  murmurs  of  music  and  flashes  of  gold. 

Oh  fair  was  this  city  when  'neath  the  moon  sleeping, 

\Vhose  soft  silvery  beams  fell  in  quietness  o'er 

The  hills  and  the  valleys,  and  river,  there  creeping, 

As  softly  it  sang  to  the  camp  on  the  shore; 

While  out  from  the  sky  in  their  wantonness  roaming 

The  shadowy  breezes  with  bated  breath  steal 

The  soul  of  the  flowers,  in  the  hours  of  the  gloaming, 

And,  unto  the  sense,  all  their  odors  reveal. 

Then  laving  their  wings  on  the  breast  of  the  river, 

They  gather  the  pearls  which  float  glittering  there, 

Then  mounting  o'er  meadows  and  woodlands  they  quiver, 

And  scatter  the  gems  o'er  the  sleeping  world  there  ! 

125 


THE    LOVERS   OF   SHILOH. 

The  velvety  mantle  of  grasses  which  cover 
The  slumbering  hills,  all  bediamonded  lay 
As  a  sweet  blushing  maid,  attired  for  her  lover 
To  smile  on  her  charms,  so  they  wait  for  the  da}-. 

From  loyal  homes  parting,  here  quickly  assembled 
The  flower  of  the  nation,  the  bravest  and  best, 
Before  whose  achievements  the  modern  world  trembled, 
The  strength  of  the  nation,  the  pride  of  the  West. 
Impatiently  waiting  commands  for  a  season 
To  march  to  the  battle,  the  soldier's  delight, 
To  throttle  the  victims  of  error  and  treason, 
And  triumph  the  flag,  and  the  cause  of  the  right. 
With  the  loyal  and  brave,  the  strength  of  the  nation, 
Young  Edgar  commingled  regretting  delays, 
That  fretted  ambition,  while  war's  preparation 
Consumed  the  bright  hours  of  the  long  Spring-time  days. 

Meanwhile  Arzelia,  lovely  flower, 
Bereft  of  reason  and  of  power, 
By  cruel  words  which,  like  a  dart, 
Pierced  through  her  bosom  to  her  heart, 
When  told  that  Edgar's  oath  had  bound 
His  soul  to  brave  wild  war's  dread  sound. 
And  in  the  heat  of  battle  be 
A  mark  for  vengeance  of  the  foe, 
As  through  the  conflict's  bloody  sea 
He  leads  where  duty  calls  to  go. 
Benumbed  she  lay  till  sorrow's  tears 
Came  to  her  stricken  soul's  relief, 
And  all  her  trembling  hopes  and  fears 
Gave  way  before  a  flood  of  grief. 
"  Oh,  love,"  she  cried,  "come  back  again, 
Come  back  and  still  this  bitter  pain, 
Those  harsh  and  cruel  words  I  said 
Were  false  as  human  tongue  could  tell; 
Oh  come  and  lift  this  weight  of  dread, 
And  whisper  one  fond,  loved  farewell." 

"  Oh,  love,  am  I  by  thee  forsaken  ? 
Oh,  love,  return  and  tell  me  true, 
If  love,  sweet  love,  will  not  awaken 

126 


THE    LOVERS   OF    SHILOH. 

And  bind  again  our  hearts  anew? 

Oh,  can  it  be  the  golden  bowl, 

By  my  rash  action  has  been  broken? 

The  precious  life-wine  of  the  soul 

Been  chilled  by  words  that  I  have  spoken? 

Will  nevermore  thy  joyous  tone 

Call  me  again  thy  heart,  thine  own? 

And  am  I  doomed  fore'er  to  miss 

The  thrilling  gladness  of  thy  kiss? 

And  never  feel  thy  hand  again 

Brush  back  the  ringlets  from  my  brow? 

Shall  Sorrow  sit  fore'er  with  pain 

Upon  my  heart  as  she  doth  now? 

Has  peace  forever  flown  away  — 

Will  ne'er  return  love's  gladsome  morn? 

Must  I  fore'er  in  sadness  stray, 

Cursing  the  day  when  I  was  born  ? 

Oh,  love,  return  and  roll  the  stone, 

Away  from  this  dread  sepulcher; 

'Tis  thy  loved  hand,  and  thine  alone, 

This  precious  boon  can  now  confer." 

Thus  o'er  and  o'er  she  sobbed  in  vain, 

Shrouded  within  her  bitter  woe, 

Feeling  remorse  and  constant  pain, 

Which  hearts  like  hers  alone  can  know. 

The  hours  seemed  days,  and  days  seemed  years, 

While  poured  her  heart  its  flood  of  tears, 

As  through  her  bosom  swept  wild  fears 

Ivest  he,  her  love,  her  soul,  her  life, 

Should  fall  a  victim  'mid  the  strife, 

And  she  not  know,  this  side  of  Heaven, 

She  was  by  him,  at  least,  forgiven. 

At  thought  her  future  life  might  be 

Clouded  by  this  great  misery, 

She  vowed  that  she  would  never  rest 

Till  by  his  smile  she  had  been  blessed; 

Till  every  care  had  been  beguiled, 

And  they  be  fully  reconciled. 

Upon  this  mission  quick  away 
She  hastened  ere  the  close  of  day; 

127 


THE    LOVERS    OF   SHILOH. 

And  on,  still  on,  her  course  pursued, 

By  holy  power  of  love  imbued; 

And  as  the  Sabbath  sweetly  rose 

She  knew  its  radiant  light  would  close, 

And  evening's  gloaming  shadows  fall 

Upon  a  tented  city,  where 

Edgar  would  answer  to  her  call, 

And  lift  this  weight  of  deep  despair; 

Dark  waves  should  calm  to  quiet  bliss, 

At  touch  of  his  warm,  fervent  kiss. 

But  hark,  why  trembles  thus  the  air? 

Why  quivers  thus  the  solid  ground? 

No  clouds  of  storm  are  gathered  there 

From  which  to  voice  this  rumbling  sound. 

Still  yet  again  it  clearer  grows, 

Breaking  the  Sabbath's  still  repose. 

Beneath  the  pleasant  Spring-time  sun. 

It  is  the  battle's  thunder  gun! 

Whose  tones  now  echo  through  the  sky 

Their  challenge  to  all  who  defy, 

The  measure  of  their  iron  will; 

With  awe-inspiring  tremors  fill 

The  breasts  of  those  who  hear  the  sound, 

While  breath  of  vengeance  all  around 

Beclouds  the  balmy  Spring-time  air, 

With  deep  forebodings  of  despair. 

Oh,  God,"  she  murmured,  "  save  from  harm, 
Amid  the  hurtling  battle's  storm; 
Outstretch  for  him  Thy  mighty  arm 
To  guard  and  guide  his  noble  form." 
And  every  breath  was  one  of  prayer 
To  Heaven,  to  save  her  hero  there. 
Surely,  if  prayer  availing  prove, 
Heaven  will  lend  an  ear  to  her, 
Inspired  by  holy  thoughts  of  love 
From  such  a  fair  petitioner. 

The  lull  of  battle  came  when  Night 
Drew  o'er  the  field  her  somber  shade, 
Hiding  from  mortal  eyes  the  sight 
And  havoc,  which  wild  war  had  made 

128 


THE    LOVERS   OF   SHILOH. 

And  when  the  twilight's  softened  ray 

Weaves,  with  its  strands  of  gloom  and  gray, 

The  bridge  o'er  which  our  senses  pass, 

Unless  our  willfulness,  alas  ! 

The  ropes  destroy,  with  ruthless  hand, 

Which  lead  to  sleep's  weird  mystic  land, 

Arzelia  on  her  mission  came, 

Asking,  alone  in  love's  sweet  name, 

That  she  might  search  that  dark  field  o'er, 

From  where  the  river  laves  its  shore, 

Back  to  the  farthest  picket  line, 

Where  rebel  forces  still  combine, 

To  find  her  lover,  though  the  field 

Should  naught  but  his  dead  body  yield. 

When  the  gloom  of  night  had  fallen  over  all  the  battle-field, 
Where  the  weary  armies  rested  from  the  fight,  they  would  not  yield, 
But,  drawn  up  in  line  of  battle,  waiting  for  the  coming  day, 
Through  that  stormy  night  of  terror,  resting  on  their  arms,  they  lay; 
And  the  moaning  of  the  wounded,  as  they  writhed  in  bitter  pain, 
Mingled  with  the  dreary  sobbing  of  the  fitful  gusts  of  rain; 
And  each  moment  souls  were  winning  over  death  sweet  victory, 
On  the  bloody  field  of  Shiloh,  where  flows. swift  the  Tennessee. 

Wildly  now  the  rain  is  falling  from  the  sympathetic  clouds, 
Washing  softly  the  dead  faces  lying  in  their  loyal  shrouds, 
And  the  night  winds,  weirdly  moaning,  kiss  the  temples  of  the  dead, 
Chanting  then  a  requiem  sadly  in  the  hemlocks  overhead. 
And  the  river's  waves  are  muffled,  as  they  softly  onward  sweep, 
While  the  trees  of  all  the  forest  sadly  wring  their  hands  and  weep 
For  the  fate  of  all  those  lying  'neath  their  branches  silently, 
On  the  bloody  field  of  Shiloh,  where  flows  swift  the  Tennessee. 

For  the  woods  were  full  of  sadness,  dead  and  dying,  everywhere, 

And  the  woundeds'  piteous  pleading  floated  out  upon  the  air, 

With  deep,  piercing  tones  of  anguish,  causing  hearts  to  melt  and  quail, 

That  had  never  known  a  tremor,  as  they  faced  the  deadly  hail 

In  the  carnival  of  battle,  where  death  raged  amid  the  storm, 

And  upon  its  dashing  billows  rode  in  many  a  dreadful  form; 

Oh,  it  was  a  scene  most  fearful  for  the  human  eye  to  see, 

On  the  bloody  field  of  Shiloh,  where  flows  swift  the  Tennessee  ! 

129 


THE    LOVERS  OF  SHILOH. 

Some  were  praying,  in  their  anguish,  for  the  hand  of  death  to  free 

Them  from  state  where  now  they  languish,  in  their  awful  misery; 

vSome  were  calling  "father,"  "mother,"  in  delirium  of  pain, 

To  relieve  them  from  the  torture  which  now  fires  their  fevered  brain 

While  others  sang  of  conquest,  strong  in  faith  for  victory, 

Over  all  the  foes  that  cherish  aught  against  full  liberty, 

As  they  fought  the  battle  over,  struggling  still  in  death  to  free 

Our  loved  country  from  foul  treason,  where  flows  swift  the  Tennessee. 

Here  amid  this  scene  of  terror,  with  soft  footsteps,  gently  came 
Woman,  \vith  her  tender  kindness,  in  love's  sweet  and  holy  name, 
Bearing  Heaven's  great  commission  to  those  faint  and  dying  men; 
And  through  all  her  acts  and  blessings,  Christ,  the  Holy,  lived  again. 
And  the  dying  soldiers  blest  them,  called  them  angels  all  divine; 
And  if  Heaven's  be  their  equals,  how  its  fields  must  glow  and  shine, 
For  their  presence  was  all  beauty,  all  delight  and  sympathy, 
As  they  blest  the  scene  of  battle,  where  flows  swift  the  Tennessee. 

'Mid  the  strife  and  rage  of  battle,  lo  !  fair  liberty  was  born, 
Through  deep  woe,  and  grief,  and  anguish,  till  the  evening  from  the  morn, 
'Mid  the  groaning,  and  the  moaning,  and  the  sobbing,  and  the  pain, 
While  the  blood  from  human  fountains  flowed,  like  storms  of  splashing  rain ; 
And  each  loyal  drop  there  falling  was  of  more  than  finite  worth, 
For  'twas  shed  for  Freedom's  triumph,  and  for  Liberty's  great  birth; 
That  man's  brotherhood  forever  should  be  known  from  sea  to  sea — 
Thus  spoke  forth  the  voice  of  battle,  where  flows  swift  the  Tennessee.  4 

All  of  honor,  all  of  merit,  that  poor  human  power  can  give, 

Is  due  all  those  that  perished,  is  due  all  those  that  live, 

Who  here  strove,  and  fought  like  heroes,  'mid  the  awful  din  and  strife, 

In  the  Nation's  hour  of  peril,  when  throbbed  low  its  pulse  of  life, 

When  the  fearful  scourge  of  treason  damned  and  poisoned  every  pore, 

And  the  light  of  its  fair  vision  seemed  fast  dimming,  more  and  more: 

Honor,  glory,  fame  undying,  aye,  forever  let  it  be 

For  all  those  who  fought  for  freedom,  where  flows  swift  the  Tennessee. 

Gather  lilies  from  the  valley,  from  the  hillside  pluck  the  rose, 
Weave  them  into  lovely  garlands,  for  all  those  who  here  repose; 
Bring  them  yearly  in  their  freshness,  for  the  heroes,  one  and  all, 
\Vhom  the  hand  of  Death  here  shadowed,  with  its  dark  and  mystic  pall. 
Jewel  them  with  pearly  tear-drops,  richest  gifts  the  heart  may  know, 
Weave  them  gently  o'er  the  green  mounds,  for  the  sleepers  just  below, 
And  may  angels  o'er  them  hover,  till  they  wake  again  and  see 
The  full  glory  of  their  labors,  where  flows  swift  the  Tennessee. 

130 


THE;  COVERS  OF  SHII.OH. 

Arzelia,  in  this  dreadful  hour 

Threaded  her  way  across  the  field, 

All  woman's  grace  and  human  power, 

Her  purpose  firm,  she  would  not  yield, 

But  back  and  forth  amid  the  rain, 

Hearing  the  agony  of  pain, 

As,  all  around  her,  everywhere, 

It  rose  upon  the  humid  air 

In  awful  sounds  of  dire  distress, 

From  writhing  forms  whose  wretchedness 

The  king  of  terrors  could  not  swell; 

Though  all  the  flames  of  fiery  hell 

Were  added  to  their  torture  there, 

It  could  not  fill  the  blackened  air 

With  one  more  sound  of  wild  despair. 

Yet  through  it  all,  amid  the  storm, 

Was  seen  to  pass  her  angel  form, 

Unmindful  of  the  bursting  shell 

Which  tore  the  raven  sky  and  fell, 

Proving  full  oft  the  final  doom 

Which  lit  brave  hearts  into  their  tomb, 

As  from  the  gun-boats  on  the  river, 

Sweeping  across  the  darkened  wood, 

They  burst,  and  giant  oaks  would  shiver, 

Spilling  anew  life's  crimson  blood; 

And,  answering  oft,  the  thunder-gun, 

From  tempest's  battlements  on  high; 

The  forked  lightning  swift  would  run 

Across  the  storm-beclouded  sky; 

The  terror-stricken  air  around 

And  earth  would  tremble,  at  the  sound. 

Yet  tireless,  ever  on  and  on, 

As  when  at  first  her  task  begun, 

She  plied  her  way  with  searching  eye, 

And  would  earth's  terrors  all  defy, 

And  risk  of  losing  Heaven  run; 

For  all  the  ioys  of  Paradise 

Were  then  as  nothing,  to  her  eyes, 

Compared  to  him,  her  chosen  one. 

Now  o'er  a  form  she  stumbling  fell, 

And  heard  him  lisp  a  last  "farewell;" 


THE    LOVERS   OF   SHILOH. 

Another,  but  the  angel  Death 

Had  called  before,  and  from  him  breath 

Had  long  departed,  and  the  eyes, 

Gazing  into  the  stormy  skies, 

No  answering  gleam  of  sight  there  gave, 

Save  the  determined  look  which  brave 

Men  carry  to  their  final  rest, 

Within  kind  Nature's  silent  breast. 

She  softly  pressed  his  eyelids  down, 
And  crossed  his  cold  and  clammy  hands, 
Murmuring  low:  "The  golden  crown 
And  wreath  are  his  in  brighter  lands." 
Brushing  the  locks  from  off  his  brow 
She  planted  there  a  tender  kiss, 
And  said:  u  Rest  well,  brave  stranger,  now 
Thy  home  is  brighter  far  than  this." 
While  sorrow's  tear-drops  coursing  run 
From  out  her  soulful,  tender  eyes 
At  thought  that  every  single  one 
Was  some  heart's  idol,  who  here  lies 
And  suffers  all  the  heart  may  know 
Of  pain  and  anguish  here  below, 
\Vith  none  to  sooth  their  agonies. 

On,  on  she  goes,  still  searching  on, 
Asking  of  each  and  every  one, 
Who  o'er  that  field  now  swiftly  move, 
If  they  have  seen  her  chosen  love  — 
A  noble  soldier,  one  whose  eye 
Would  all  the  hosts  of  earth  defy; 
A  leader  of  the  brave,  of  those 
Who  bid  defiance  to  their  foes, 
And  would  that  every  foot  of  ground 
Wrere  heaped  into  a  gentle  mound, 
Beneath  which  loyal  sons  should  lie, 
Rather  than  treason  should  defy, 
And  trail  the  white  and  crimson  bars, 
And  dim  the  glory  of  the  stars 
Which  form  the  banner  of  the  free, 
The  Nation's  badge  of  liberty. 

132 


THE    LOVERS    OF    SHII.OH. 

But  of  her  love  no  one  could  tell, 
Save  that  he  fought  so  brave  and  well 
That  his  inspiring,  flashing  eye 
Nerved  all  his  men  for  victory; 
That  in  the  thickest  of  the  fight 
To  lead  them  on  was  his  delight, 
Telling  to  each  and  every  one, 
No  crown  was  like  to  duty  done 
Where  honor  calls,  though  dangers  lie 
As  thick  as  sun-beams  in  the  sky, 
Or,  forest's  leaves,  when  summer's  fled, 
And  earth  by  them  is  carpeted. 

The  fairest  flowers  are  first  to  die  — 
The  dearest  treasures  soonest  lost; 
The  stunted  oaks  all  storms  defy, 
The  stately  trees  are  wrecked  and  tossed; 
The  birds  that  sweetest,  softest  sing, 
Are  first  to  plume  the  farewell  wing; 
The  voice  that  wakes  love's  sweetest  tone, 
Death  seems  to  claim  first  for  its  own. 

Arzelia  felt  these  sayings  true; 
For  all  through  life  the  hand  of  fate 
Seemed  prone  to  wreck  and  desolate 
All  hopes  and  plans  she  ever  knew. 
And  now  she  looked  alone  to  see 
Her  lover's  form  before  her  lying, 
And  felt  her  lot  was  sure  to  be 
To  find  him  wounded,  weak  and  dying. 
And  when  the  sword  of  heaven,  flashing, 
Drove  back  the  darkness  where  she  stood 
Amid  the  pelting  rain,  which  dashing 
Fell  in  great  torrents  through  the  wood, 
As  fierce  the  storm-king's  voice  awoke 
The  stillness  of  the  night  around, 
She  shelter  took  beneath  an  oak, 
There  saw  her  lover  on  the  ground  — 
Just  where  amid  the  charge  he  fell 
When  near  him  burst  a  deadly  shell, 
Bereaving  him  of  all  but  life, 
While  onward  rolled  the  dreadful  strife. 


133 


THE    LOVERS    OF   SHII.OH. 

She  bowed  in  grief  her  queenly  head, 
While  coursing  from  her  lovely  eyes 
The  scalding  tears  of  grief  were  shed. 
'Mid  choking  sobs,  "Alas!"  she  cries, 
As  clasping  there  his  dear,  loved  form 
She  finds  his  manly  bosom  warm: 
'  Oh  love,  forgive,  forgive,  dear  heart, 
The  words  which  long  have  kept  apart 
Our  hungry  souls;  forgive,  forgive, 
Forgive  me,  love;"  the  bitter  cry 
Rang  on  the  air,  "or  let  me  die!" 
And  o'er  and  o'er  she  kissed  him  there 
On  brow,  and  cheeks,  and  lips,  and  hair, 
As  with  affection's  fond  caress 
She'd  woo  him  back  to  consciousness. 
And  so  it  was:  now,  trembling,  rise 
The  fallen  curtains  of  his  eyes, 
And  from  them  fondly,  sweetly  beams 
Affection's  pure,  devoted  gleams. 
Oh,  power  of  love  !     Oh/ matchless  power  ! 
To  fill  with  light  this  gloomy  hour; 
To  win  back  from  the  jaws  of  death 
The  soul  that  seemed  devoid  of  breath. 
She  caught  that  sweet,  reviving  glow; 
Her  tears  of  praise  in  torrents  flow; 
In  wild  delirium  of  joy 
She  cries:  "Thank  God!  my  darling  boy, 
Thou  hast  returned  again  to  me 
From  verge  of  death's  deep  mystery. 
Oh,  love,  while  yet  thou  truly  live, 
Speak,  speak  one  word,  that  word  —  forgive! 

She  bowed  to  listen,  placed  her  ear 
Close  to  his  lips,  that  she  might  hear 
The  faintest  accent  that  might  wake 
To  voice  the  stillness  so  profound, 
The  longings  of  her  soul  to  break, 
And  fill  her  heart  with  love's  sweet  sound. 
His  features  beamed  with  radiant  glow, 
With  beauty  rare,  which  none  may  know 
On  earth  below  or  heaven  above, 
Except  it  beam  from  souls  that  love. 

134 


THE    LOVERS   OF   SHILOH. 

Pressing  her  hand  within  his  own, 
He  murmured  in  a  pleading  tone: 
;<  Arzelia,  through  the  awful  storm 
Of  battle,  where  I  fiercely  rode, 
I  saw  before  me  thy  loved  form, 
There,  where  the  fires  most  hotly  glowed, 
And  war's  fierce  notes  in  discord  rose, 
And  man  to  man  with  deadly  blows 
Sought  to  dispel,  destroy,  deface 
The  pride  and  blossom  of  the  race; 
With  all  the  damned  device  of  war 
Each  sought  to  prove  proud  conqueror. 
But  in  that  vision's  lovely  face 
There  seemed  to  hover  still  a  frown; 
What  cared  I  then  for  victor's  crown, 
When  I  no  sign  of  hope  could  trace 
Of  sweet  forgiveness  there  to  bless  ? 
Then  turned  my  soul  to  bitterness. 
I  curses  hurled  upon  my  fate, 
That  she  should  let  all  honors  fall, 
Save  one,  and  that  were  more  than  all, 
Without  which  life  is  desolate; 
Then  prayed  I  with  each  fleeting  breath, 
That  I  sweet  peace  might  find  in  death; 
The  volley's  flame  was  beauty  then, 
The  cannon's  roar  was  music  sweet; 
And  on  I  urged  my  valiant  men, 
Craving  not  victory  or  defeat, 
But  that  I  might  amid  the  fray 
Wrestle  with  death's  grim  skeleton, 
And  close  my  book  of  life  this  day, 
And  with  distress  for  e'er  have  done. 
What  should  I  care  for  victory, 
The  plaudits  of  the  world  to  me 
Would  sound  like  hollow  mockery, 
For  earth  below  and  heaven  above, 
Hold  not  one  charm  without  thy  love. 

"But,  oh,  Arzelia,  love,  with  thee 
Earth's  bitterness  to  me  is  sweet, 
And  cloudless  skies  smile  on  a  sea 
Where  fresh  winds  whisper  lovingly, 

135 


THE  LOVERS  OF  SHILOH. 

From  shores  where  bloom  love's  flowers  complete; 
And  I  would  give  my  chance  of  Heaven 
To  live  and  be  by  thee  forgiven, 
And  know  that  I  was  dear  to  thee, 
As  thou,  sweet  love,  art  unto  me." 

"  Press  close  to  me,  darling,  I  feel  the  fresh  breezes 
From  over  death's  ocean  are  kissing  my  brow, 
Exultingly  trembles  my  soul  as  it  seizes 
The  strength,  which  they  bring  me,  in  ecstasy  now. 
I  hear  the  sweet  music  of  bugles  so  faintly 
Borne  over  the  white-crested  foam  of  each  wave, 
And  see  in  great  columns  my  comrades  all  saintly 
In  triumph  march  on,  over  death  and  the  grave. 

"The  great  army  of  souls  that  now  are  ascending 
P'rom  out  this  dark  wood,  are  the  souls  of  the  brave, 
The  notes  of  the  fife,  with  the  drum's  music  blending, 
Cheer  all  who  have  struggled  their  country  to  save. 
Their  robes  are  as  pure  as  the  light  of  the  morning, 
As  over  the  earth  its  white  pinions  are  spread, 
If  the  world  only  knew,  the  sound  of  its  mourning 
Would  change  into  joy  for  the  life  of  the  dead. 

"The  blood  of  the  patriot  shed  in  defending 
The  cause  of  sweet  Liberty's  triumph  and  right, 
A  plea  for  full  pardon  each  soul  is  attending 
That  rises  to  God  from  this  dark  field  to-night. 
For  he  who  hath  wrought  for  the  honor  and  glory 
Of  Him  who  rules  over  the  cause  of  the  just, 
By  writing  in  blood  from  his  heart  the  sweet  story 
Of  freedom  for  man,  need  no  judgment  distrust. 

"My  bow  is  unbended,  and  empty  my  quiver, 
My  armor  falls  powerless  with  this  mortal  life, 
For  beyond  the  bright  waves  of  death's  gleaming  river 
We  wear  not  the  armor  of  envy  and  strife. 
For  peace,  like  an  angel  with  fair  bosom  heaving, 
Smiles  sweetly  o'er  all  on  the  shores  of  the  blest; 
There  sorrow  is  past,  and  all  sadness  and  grieving, 
Are  lulled  to  a  quiet  and  unending  rest. 

136 


THE    LOVERS    OF   SHII^OH. 

'Arzelia,  oh,  my  thoughts  grow  tender, 
And  anguish  fills  my  bleeding  heart 
That  I,  thy  chosen  love,  defender, 
Must  leave  thee  all  as  lone  thou  art; 
Heaven  is  sweet,  I've  caught  its  glimmer, 
But,  oh  !  to  be  fore'er  with  thee, 
This  world,  or  even  one  far  dimmer, 
Were  good  enough,  sweet  love,  for  me. 
But  now  He  calls,  the  great  commander, 
From  the  head-quarters  of  the  soul, 
And  I  must  go,  dear  love,  to  render 
Account  to  Him  who  has  control 
Of  all  the  bond,  and  of  the  free, 
Of  this,  and  every  other  land, 
Shaping  their  life  and  destiny, 
By  guidance  of  His  mighty  hand; 
And  as  He  wills,  'tis  well  it  be, 
He  knows  alone— eternity. 
But,  love,  no  mortal  words  can  tell 
How  much  I  love  thee,  and  how  well; 
How  every  thought,  and  every  breath, 
Has  been  —  shall  be  all  thine  till  death. 
And  were  one  thought  within  this  heart 
Unkind  to  thee,  it  should  depart, 
For  love  of  thee  is  life  alone, 
Thy  beaming  glance,  thy  tender  tone, 
Are  sweetest  treasures  unto  me, 
And  shall,  through  all  eternity, 
My  solace  and  sweet  comfort  be. 

"Come  closer,  darling,  I  grow  chill, 
Strange  tremors  all  my  being  fill  — 
And  fainter  grows  my  every  breath  ! 
Is  this,  oh  love,  can  this  be  death  ? 
Kiss  me,  and  but  a  little  weep 
That  I  have  fallen  in  the  sleep 
That  ne'er  shall  know  a  mortal  morn; 
That  to  my  ears  no  more  be  borne 
The  notes  of  war,  while  years  increase, 
But  all  be  one  unbroken  peace, 
One  endless  night  of  sweet  repose, 

137 


THE    COVERS    OF    SHILOH. 

On  which  no  sun  hath  ever  rose. 
For  me,  I  trust,  it  shall  be  so, 
Unless  thy  love,  I  there  shall  know  ! 

'Oh,  dreadful  thought  !  to  think  that  we 
Shall  live  no  more  —  eternity 
Be  one  vast,  voiceless  sepulcher, 
To  which  all  love  and  light  defer  ! 
No,  no  !  hope  shines  beyond,  above  — 
Love  proves  itself  immortal  love. 
Something  within  all  bosoms  lie 
Which  speaks  of  immortality. 
I  feel,  dear  love,  it  must  be  true, 
While  on  my  brow  death's  clammy  dew 
Dims  every  sense  of  sight  and  sound, 
And  glimmers  fill  all  space  around. 
Save  thy  angelic  smile  to  bless 
My  soul  with  its  sweet  loveliness  ; 
While  brightly  from  the  farther  shore 
God's  light,  in  radiant  love-beams,  pour 
Across  death's  waters,  through  the  night 
In  one  effulgent  path  of  light. 
I  hear  the  splashing  of  the  oar  — 
I'll  soon  be  with  thee,  love,  no  more. 
They'll  call  you  soon,  dear  one,  and  I 
Will  come  to  waft  you  to  the  sky. 
I  would  that  I  could  longer  dwell — " 
He  ceased  to  speak  and  smiled  —  farewell ! 

And  with  that  smile  his  soul  took  wing 
For  brighter  fields  of  endless  light, 
There  in  sweet  peace  to  endless  sing 
Beyond  the  shadows  of  the  night. 
So  softly  was  its  going  there, 
From  mortal  home  so  true  and  fair, 
That  not  a  trace  of  pain  was  left 
Upon  his  form,  of  life  bereft, 
That  she  was  loath  o'er  him  to  weep, 
Death  was  so  like  its  brother  —  sleep. 
So  calm  and  peaceful  there  he  lay, 
While  slowly  wore  the  night  away, 
That  she  was  hopeful  that  when  morn 

138 


THE    COVERS   OF   SHII,OH. 

Should  in  the  East  again  declare 
That  to  the  earth  a  day  was  born, 
And  waken  all  the  sleepers  there, 
He,  too,  would  waken  from  his  dream, 
And,  with  the  old  light  in  his  eyes, 
More  beautiful  than  Spring-time  skies 
Unto  her  soul,  would  softly  beam, 
With  all  the  sweetness  of  the  love 
Which  caused  so  oft  her  heart  to  move 
In  unison,  with  every  glance, 
And  all  her  being  thrill,  entrance; 
And  know  the  sweet',  ecstatic  bliss 
Again  of  his  warm,  fervent  kiss. 

And  in  her  sorrow  and  her  tears, 
There  came  the  thought  of  other  years, 
When  first  upon  the  Nation's  sky 
Appeared  the  dark  cloud  of  its  sin, 
Until  it  grew,  till  every  eye 
Discerned  that  judgment  would  begin 
Full  soon,  for  lo!  the  cloud  had  spread 
Till  all  was  darkness  overhead, 
And  sullen  sound  of  discord  rose, 
And  forked  tongues  of  fiery  flame, 
The  venom  of  the  clouds  disclose, 
And  treason  dare  pronounce  its  name 
In  places  high  of  public  trust, 
And  flash  its  gleaming  sword  of  hate, 
Rendering  all  most  desolate, 
By  those  whose  nurture  had  been  drawn 
Like  babes  from  out  the  mother's  breast, 
Who,  watching  o'er  them  when  the  dawn 
Of  life  had  come  at  their  bequest. 

And  when  the  rumbling  of  the  storm 
Had  shook  the  Nation's  peaceful  form, 
And  she  had  called  upon  her  sons 
In  her  defence  to  grasp  their  guns, 
He  shook  with  indignation's  thrill, 
And  answered  with  a  loyal  will. 
And  she  remembered  sadly  now 
The  cloud  which  hovered  o'er  his  brow, 


139 


THE    LOVERS    OF    SHII.OH. 

As  if  a  warning  voice  he  heard, 
Silent,  yet  clear,  as  though  the  word 
Had  been  by  mortal  lips  expressed, 
And  he  the  warning  thought  confessed 
As,  turning  to  her,  he  had  said  :  — 

"  When  I  am  dead, 
Come  to  me  then  as  now, 
And  gently  soothe  my  brow, 
And  rest  your  hand, 
Dear,  loving  hand, 
Upon  my  head, 
And  say:  '  He  sleeps, 
He  is  not  dead;' 
And  lay  your  head 
Upon  my  breast. 
Think  me  not  dead, 
Only  at  rest. 

Look  on  my  form  and  face 
As  my  last  resting  place, 
From  whence  I'm  fled 
To  house  not  made  with  hands, 
In  brighter,  better  lands, 
Where  soul-faith  saith 
There  is  no  death." 

"  Oh  precious  thought,"  she  softly  said, 
"  He  does  but  sleep,  he  is  not  dead. 
This  precious  form  of  lifeless  clay, 
Which  soon  the  grave  shall  hide  away, 
Is  but  the  mansion  wherein  he 
Was  prisoned  of  his  liberty." 

Death  truly  is  the  golden  key 

That  sets  the  soul  at  liberty, 

And  solves  the  mystery  profound 

To  all  by  mortal  senses  bound. 

This  hope  assuaged  her  grief  at  length, 

And,  like  rich  wine,  gave  to  her  strength, 

Until  her  soul,  on  faith's  strong  wing, 

Arose  till  she  could  firmly  fling 

Away  all  doubt,  and  truly  say: 

140 


THE    LOVERS    OF    SHILOH. 

"  He  wakens  to  a  brighter  day, 
To  which  this  world's  most  radiant  light 
Is  but  a  sad  and  gloomy  night. 

"But  oh,  dear  form,  sweet  face,  bright  hair, 
I  love  each  line  of  beauty  there; 
Those  precious  lips,  that  oft  have  told 
The  tale  of  love — beside  which  gold 
Nor  all  the  world,  nor  heav'n  can  hold 
One  single  thing  of  any  worth; 
From  earliest  hour  of  life's  sweet  birth 
Until  its  close — could  all  things  be, 
Of  beauty,  light  and  melody, 
Rolled  into  one,  it  could  not  prove 
An  equal  to  one  word  of  love. 

"  Sweet  lips,  now  cold  and  motionless, 
That  answer  not  my  fervent  kiss, 
And  ears  that  harken  riot  the  sound, 
Though  oft  I  break  the  stillness  round, 
With  pleadings  to  thy  noble  soul; 
Oh,  would  that  death  would  swiftly  roll 
From  mine  this  mantle  dark  of  clay, 
And  show  my  soul  to  thine  the  way. 
Dear  eyes,  now  closed  and  lusterless, 
Your  waking  light — how  I  shall  miss  ! 
Oh,  that  the  lamp  of  life  might  be 
But  for  a  moment  lighted  there, 
That  I  again  through  them  might  see 
The  soul-light  beaming  warm  and  fair, 
As  in  the  old,  sweet  time,  when  shone 
Their  loving  light  into  my  own. 

"Oh,  locks  of  jet  and  silken  hair, 
Clustering  round  that  marble  brow, 
Thy  wealth  of  darkened  ringlets  now 
Circles  a  manly  beauty  rare." 
To  every  one  who  passed  that  way, 
She  bade  them  softly,  lightly  move, 
Lest  .their  rude  treading  should  betray 
Their  presence  to  her  sleeping  love, 
And  wake  him  from  his  peaceful  rest, 
As  he  so  calmly,  sweetly  lay 

141 


THE    LOVERS   OF  SHILOH. 

With  his  fair  head  upon  her  breast, 
While  broke  the  darkness  into  day. 
It  would  have  touched  a  heart  of  stone, 
To  see  her  guard  with  loving  care 
Her  precious  love  there  all  alone; 
And  softly  kiss  his  brow  and  hair, 
And  murmur  to  him  sweet  and  low, 
As  from  her  lips  these  accents  flow  :  — 

"  Sweetly  sleep,  my  darling  lover, 
Calmly  take  thy  needed  rest; 
Angels  o'er  thy  bosom  hover, 
Thou  art  pillowed  on  my  breast. 

"Sweetly  sleep,  no  need  of  waking, 
Now  all  care  has  from  thee  flown; 
No  rude  call  thy  rest  is  breaking, 
I  am  with  thee,  all  alone. 

<(  I.  will  guard  thee,  love,  forever, 
It  is  now  my  chosen  part; 
Naught  on  earth  can  more  us  sever, 
Hand  in  hand,  and  heart  to  heart. 

"  I  am  with  thee,  ever  with  thee, 
Sorrow's  waves  have  ceased  to  roll; 
And  no  trouble  can  distress  me, 
I  am  with  thee,  oh!  my  soul. 

"  Heaven's  richest,  sweetest  blessings 
Crown  our  lives  with  purest  joy; 
With  its  warm  and  loved  caressings, 
I  am  with  thee,  darling  boy. 

"  I  am  with  thee,  oh,  my  lover, 
Earth  can  add  no  sweeter  bliss; 
With  my  mantle  thee  I  cover 
In  thy  slumbers  thee  I  kiss. 

"To  my  bosom  now  I  fold  thee, 
And  thy  lips  in  fondness  kiss; 
In  affection's  arms  I  hold  thee — 
Heaven's  joys  exceed  not  this." 


142 


THE    LOVERS   OF   SHILOH. 

Thus  the  waking  morning  found  her,  talking  softly  to  her  dead, 

While  the  matin  winds  were  sighing  in  the  branches  overhead; 

And  rich,  brilliant  pearls  and  rubies,  stud  the  leaves  and  all  the  ground, 

As  though  angels  in  their  winging,  scattered  here  their  jewels  round; 

And  she  softly  said  unto  him,  "  Sleep,  my  lover,  sleep  away, 

Take  thy  rest,  oh,  take  thy  slumber,  heed  thou  not  the  coming  day. 

"Heed  thou  not  the  cannon's  thunder,  heed  thou  not  the  voice  of  war, 
Though  the  vase  of  clay  be  broken,  yet  the  soul  is  conqueror." 
Still  I  seem  to  hear  her  singing,  to  her  lover,  soft  and  low  : 

"Sleep,  my  darling,  take  thy  slumber,  thou  no  care  shalt  ever  know; 
For  I'm  with  thee,  ever  with  thee,  sorrow's  waves  hath  ceased  to  roll, 
And  no  troubles  can  distress  thee,  I  am  with  thee,  oh,  my  soul. 


"  Where  thou  leadest,  I  will  follow, 
Where  thou  goest,  I  will  go; 
Thou,  my  god,  my  fair  Appollo; 
Other's  love  I  shall  not  know. 

"  Queen  to  thee,  my  lord  and  master, 
Glowing  with  pure  love  divine, 
Through  the  scenes  of  wild  disaster, 
Strong  my  heart, with  love's  sweet  wine. 

"  I  shall  follow,  dear  Appollo, 
Though  thy  path  should  lead  through  flame: 
Other  joys  are  bitter — hollow, 
To  the  sweetness  of  thy  name. 

"Thou  wilt  waken,  and  say  to  me 
With  thy  lips,  and  soulful  eyes  : 
'  Love,  my  bosom  calls  unto  thee, 
As  the  sea  calls  to  the  skies.'  " 

And  o'er  and  o'er  his  lips  she  kissed, 
'Mid  that  weird  scene  where  on  the  mist 
Of  early  morning  softly  lay, 
Wooed  unto  pulsing  waves  of  gray, 
By  rosy  wTings  of  waking  day. 


143 


THE   LOVERS   OF   SHII.OH. 

Still  he  dreamed  on  when  morn  returned, 

And  gave  no  sign  of  waking  there, 

Though  long  the  maiden  watched  and  yearned, 

And  softly  stroked  his  raven  hair. 

The  horologe  of  time  marked  not 

For  him  the  hour,  and  morn  forgot 

To  wake  him  from  his  peaceful  dreams, 

Though  full  she  threw  her  golden  beams 

Upon  his  peaceful  face  and  brow, 

Wreathed  in  a  smile  of  beauty  now. 

Sleep  gently  pressed  his  eyelids  down, 

Burnished  with  light  his  raven  crown; 

Mother  of  dreams,  oh!  gift  divine! 

Wine  of  the  gods  !  refreshing  wine  ! 

Renewing  life  and  giving  power, 

And  peace  to  all;  welcome  the  hour 

When  thou  dost  bid  us  cease  to  weep, 

Angel  of  mercy  —  peaceful  sleep. 
"  Brother  of  Death  !"  if  so  thou  be, 

Death  holdeth  naught  of  misery, 

As  softly  o'er  our  senses  creep, 

Thy  calm,  unconscious  reign. 

We  welcome  thee,  oh,  gentle  sleep, 

And  woo  thee  oft  to  come  again; 

A  balm  for  every  sorrow  thou, 

A  priceless  crown  for  every  brow; 

Proving  His  matchless  love  so  deep, 
"He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

As  closed  her  low,  sweet  lullaby, 
Her  sorrow  woke  with  heaving  sigh; 
As  back  with  mortal  sense  again, 
She  felt  the  burden  of  her  pain 
Fall  on  her  heart  with  sore  distress, 
Making  her  grief  nigh  measureless; 
Her  troubled  soul  all  bliss  denied, 
In  agony  of  woe  she  cried  :  — 
"  Oh,  how  I  loved  him,  none  can  tell, 
I  cannot,  will  not,  say  farewell! 
I  cannot  live  without  him,  no — 

144 


THE    COVERS   OF   SHII^OH. 

'  Where'er  thou  goest,  I  will  go,' 
Are  words  which  ne'er  can  be  unsaid, 
They  bind  the  living  and  the  dead; 
For  none  are  dead,  they  live  to-day, 
Though  in  a  higher,  purer  way; 
Those  solemn  words  I  shall  obey, 
And  from  this  spot  I  shall  not  move 
Till  Heaven  take  me  to  my  love." 

Then,  lo,  from  out  the  mystic  gloaming, 
From  the  land  of  spirits  roaming, 
Came  a  presence  hovering  o'er  her, 
In  the  form  of  her  dead  lover, 
Speaking  with  voice  that  was  his  own 
In  every  accent,  every  tone; 
In  every  feature  of  its  face 
A  like  to  his  she  there  could  trace; 
The  eyes  —  those  wondrous  pleading  eyes, 
Glancing  from  out  the  darkened  skies, 
With  all  the  wealth  of  tenderness 
Embodied  in  the  soul  of  love, 
Voicing  the  power  supreme  to  bless, 
Known  to  the  earth  or  heaven  above, 
And,  whispering  to  her  soul,  it  said:  — 
"  Arzelia,  love,  I  am  not  dead, 
But  from  the  prison-house  of  clay 
I,  that  you  loved,  have  passed  away; 
Oh,  precious  one,  be  of  good  cheer, 
The  hour  of  joy  for  you  is  near, 
E'en  now  death's  waters  lave  your  feet, 
A  little  time  and  we  shall  meet  — 
Oh,  blessed  thought,  to  part  no  more! 
Upon  this  radiant,  love-kissed  shore. 
Thou  wert  by  nature  made  so  near 
This  better  world,  your  change  will  be 
Without  a  tremor  or  a  fear, 
From  earth  to  immortality, 
And  peacefully  as  doth  the  rose 
Its  blossom  from  the  bud  disclose. 
Here,  where  no  joy  is  e'er  denied, 
And  every  wish  is  satisfied; 

145 


THE   LOVERS   OF  SHILOH. 

Where  wakes  no  thought  within  the  breast 
That  findeth  not  a  peaceful  rest. 
Wherever  sent,  the  searching  dove 
Returns  with  joyful  news  of  love. 
WThere  every  questioning  echo  dies, 
Amid  the  sound  of  glad  replies, 
Within  these  fields  of  Paradise. 


"  Take  all  the  glory  of  the  stars 
From  shimmering  mist  to  sun-like  Mars, 
Add  silvery  glimmer  of  the  moon, 
And  golden  beams  of  sun  at  noon; 
The  soulful  murmur  of  the  seas, 
The  lute-like  notes  of  woodland  breeze, 
The  freshness  of  all  winds  that  blow, 
The  sweetness  of  all  flowers  that  bloom, 
And  every  joy  that's  found  below, 
Between  the  cradle  and  the  tomb, 
And  roll  them  into  one  grand  ball 
Of  love  and  beauty,  light  and  song, 
And  into  heaven  let  it  fall 
Amid  the  soul-redeemed  throng, 
And  it  would  all  far  lesser  be 
Than  morning  dew-drop  to  the  sea." 
Then,  beckoning  her  with  smile  and  hand, 
The  vision  slowly  passed  away, 
While  from  the  eastward  o'er  the  land, 
Faint  glimmers  hinted  of  the  day. 


Oh,  cruel  grief,  how  worse  than  leaden  ball, 
Thy  course  to  loving  heart,  withering  all 
The  budding  beauty  of  the  maiden  life, 
When  trembles  all  the  soul  at  thought  of  wife; 
Of  wife  to  him  of  her  pure  bosom's  choice, 
When  love  awakens  with  his  lute-like  voice, 
And  all  the  seasons  bear  the  breath  of  June, 
And  every  waking  sound  melts  to  a  tune; 
And  life  appears  all  rose  without  the  thorn, 
And  night  gives  way  to  one  effulgent  morn 
Of  light  and  joy,  whose  bright  and  golden  ray, 

146 


THE:  COVERS  OF  SHILOH. 

Bespeaks  till  death  one  endless  Summer  day. 
Oh,  cruel  grief,  why  should  the  fates  let  fall 
Thy  bitterness,  to  damn  and  wither  all; 
Why  should  the  Winter  winds  untimely  blow, 
And  fill  the  warm-lipped  month  of  June  with  snow, 
With  thy  dread  kiss  of  death  to  blast  the  rose, 
Destroy  the  sweetness  of  its  fragrant  bloom, 
Strip  life  of  every  joy,  and  but  disclose 
The  weird  and  ghastly  terror  of  the  tomb  ? 


Oh,  blasting  grief,  before  thee  light  is  fled, 

And  hope's  sweet  face  is  mantled  with  a  pall : 

For  he,  the  fountain  of  her  joy,  is  dead, 

Has  passed  the  Rubicon  of  life  beyond  recall; 

And  she  is  widowed  and  bereft  —  alone, 

WTith  her  great  weight  of  sorrow  only  known 

Unto  her  soul,  and  Him  that  feeds  the  lambs, 

And  to  the  hungry  heart  do.th  give  rich  alms; 

But  in  this  wretched  world  of  black  despair, 

How  madly  hurls  the  Winter  through  the  air, 

And  freezing  the  young  life  in  every  pore, 

And  deafening  all  with  its  wild,  frantic  roar, 

As  high  the  billows  rage  of  sorrow's  storm, 

Till  cowering  'neath  its  blast  her  gentle  form 

Trembles  beneath  her  heavy  weight  of  grief, 

As  shakes,  before  the  howling  winds,  the  leaf; 

Benumbed  with  grief,  the  night  hours  pass  away, 

And  in  the  East  appears  the  blush  of  day, 

And  as  the  infant  morn  trembled  with  life, 

She  woke  to  sorrow's  pain,  which  like  a  knife, 

Struck  to  her  soul,  when  morning  light  had  said, 

With  truthful  ray,  "poor  heart,  thy  love  is  dead." 

She  answered  with  one  wild  and  piercing  scream, 

Which  echoed  through  the  wood  and  down  the  stream, 

So  full  of  human  agony  and  pain, 

Its  like  shall  never  sound  on  earth  again. 

And  fell  there  in  the  morning's  twilight  hour, 

A  crushed  and  broken  lily  —  love's  sweet  flower, 

Divorced  on  earth,  but  wedded  now  in  Heaven, 

Unto  the  soul  her  love  on  earth  was  given. 


147 


THE    COVERS    OF    SHII<OH. 

And  there,  upon  a  mossy  bed, 
They  found  them  lying  cold  and  dead; 
He  died  his  country's  life  to  save, 
And  blessed  by  all  shall  be  his  grave. 
While  the  soft  wind  said  to  the  leaf, 
;  Poor  troubled  heart,  she  died  of  grief  ! ' 
And  sweeping  low  to  kiss  them  there, 
Lying  within  death's  mystic  fold, 
It  toyed  and  tossed  their  brilliant  hair 
In  waves  of  mingled  jet  and  gold. 


148 


DIALECT    POEMS 


MUSIC  IN  THE  BARKIN'  uv  A  DOC, 


MUSIC    IN   THE   BARKIN'   UV    A   DOG, 


What's  the  sweetest  music?  stranger, 

That's  a  question,  I'll  agree; 
Fur  to  differ  frum  most  others, 

Though  there's  one  that  sides  with  me. 
Music's  what  brings  joy  'nd  comfort, 

Moves  to  pain,  mayhaps  to  tears; 
Paints  a  picter,  clear,  unfadin', 

On  the  heart,  fur  years  'nd  years. 
Some  likes  organ,  some  planner, 

Flute  er  fiddle,  some  a  band; 
But  fur  me  a  good  dog's  barkin's, 

The  sweetest  music  in  the  land. 


You'r  astonished  at  my  choosin', 

Sich  a  note  fur  best  uv  all 
Uv  the  sounds  which  earth  or  heaven, 

Ever  on  my  ear  let  fall? 
Listen,  stranger,  'nd  I'll  tell  you, 

How  I  come  to  take  the  ground, 
That  a  dog's  voice,  when  he's  barkin', 

Makes  on  earth  the  sweetest  sound : 
It  was  evenin'  in  the  Summer, 

We'd  been  married  most  four  year; 
Strange  it  seems  in  lookin'  back'ard, 

How  that  evenin'  seems  so  clear. 


MUSIC  IN  THE  BARKIN'  uv  A  DOG. 

I  hed  finished  up  my  chorin', 

To  the  milkin'  uv  the  cows; 
They  wuz  still  down  in  the  pastur', 

Whar  they  lov'd  so  much  to  browse. 
Nell,  our  baby,  lyin'  yonder, 

In  the  corner  uv  the  yard, 
With  the  golden-fingered  willows 

Ever  o'er  her  keepin'  guard. 
Wuz  ez  peart  a  three-year  baby, 

Ez  ever  come  on  earth  to  dwell; 
But  she  died  uv  scarlet  fever 

Two  years  after  what  I  tell. 


I  hed  whistled  fur  old  Rover, 

'Nd  let  down  the  pastur'  bars, 
'Bout  the  time  the  daylight  faded, 

'Nd  the  angels  lit  the  stars. 
I  could  hear  the  bell  a-clinkin', 

Like  ez  if  old  Pied  wuz  still, 
Nippin'  uv  the  grass  a-growin' 

'Neath  the  elms  by  the  mill. 
Rover  after  'ern  went  skippin', 

At  a  gestur'  uv  my  hand, 
'Nd  wuz  soon  a-drivin'  homeward 

Every  critter  in  the  band. 


Tinkle,  tinkle,  ling-lang,  ling-lang, 

Coming  home  et  milkin'  time; 
W7uz  the  chune  the  bell  wuz  playin' 

A  reg'lar  milk  'nd  butter  chime. 
On  they  come,  the  dog  a-drivin' 

Uv  'em  thro'  the  pastur'  lot, 
Pied  the  forid  rank  a-leadin', 

Follered  clost  by  Red  'nd  Spot. 
Then  the  heifers  —  playful  critters, 

Come  a-tossin'  uv  their  heads, 
But  soon  settled,  like  most  youngsters 

After  supper,  to  their  beds. 


152 


MUSIC    IN    THE    BARKIN'    UV   A   DOG. 

I  wuz  finishin'  the  milkin' 

Uv  the  little  brindle  cow, 
Which  wuz  jest  the  boss  of  "creamers; 

Spot  guv  more  milk,  I'll  allow, 
But  tw^ant  half  so  good  fur  butter, 

'Nd  our  little  baby  Nell 
Wouldn't  drink  uv  nary  other; 

Couldn't  fool  'er  —  she  could  tell 
Brindle's  rnilk  frum  all  the  others, 

'Nd  her  "tup"  would  alluz  bring; 
'Nd  I'd  milk  et  full  uv  "strippins," 

Coz  et  pleased  the  little  thing. 


Bz  I  finished  up  that  evenin', 

'Nd  turn'd  round  to  take  her  cup, 
Found  she  wuzn't  no  whar  near  me, 

'Nd  I  went  to  hunt  her  up; 
Went  out  whar  I  see  her  standin', 

When  I  got  the  pail  'nd  stool, 
Bz  I  started  in  to  milkin', 

Whar  she  waited  ez  a  rule. 
But  she  want  no  whar  in  hearin', 

Fur  I  called  her  loud  'nd  long; 
But  no  answer  come  back  to  me, 

Save  the  wind  now  blowin'  strong. 


Then  I  listened;  called  'nd  listened, 

But  the  moanin'  uv  the  trees 
Wuz  the  only  sound  I  gathered 

Frum  the  wingin'  uv  the  breeze. 
"Come  in,  John,  'nd  bring  the  baby!" 

Called  out  Mary  from  the  door; 
"  Don't  you  see  a  storm  is  brewin'? 

Can't  you  hear  the  thunder  roar?  " 
"Yes,"  I  answered,  "  I  am  comin'," 

'Nd  I  rushed  about  half  wild; 
Huntin'  every  nook  'nd  corner, 
Fur  our  darlin'  little  child. 


153 


MUSIC  IN  THE  BARKIN'  uv  A  DOG. 

On  the  storm-cloud  come  a-rushin', 

Makin'  things  ez  black  ez  night; 
'Nd  I  knew  she  wuzn't  near  me, 

Fur  the  child  war  dressed  in  white. 
Then  I  heard  old  Rover  barkin', 

Way  off  in  the  pastur'  wood; 
'Nd  I  know'd  he'd  find  the  baby, 

Quicker'n  any  human  could. 
So  I  called,  'nd  called,  'nd  whistled, 

But  old  Rover  wouldn't  come; 
'Nd  I  felt  I'd  like  to  kill  'im, 

Strange  ez  how  I  wuz  so  dumb. 


Then  I  rushed  down  in  the  pastur', 

Heerd  'im  barkin'  more  'nd  more; 
Followed  down  whar  the  black  waters, 

O'er  the  mill  dam  foamin'  pour. 
I  hed  come  quite  close  up  to  'im, 

'Fore  I  see  thar  on  the  ground, 
Little  Nell,  who  wuz  a-cryin', 

But,  thank  God,  all  safe  'nd  sound. 
I  hev  heard  all  kinds  uv  music, 

Mentioned  in  the  catalogue; 
But  since  then,  there's  none  that's  sweeter 

Than  the  barkin'  uv  a  dog. 


154 


LITTLE   CRICKET. 

We  called  'im  Little  Cricket, 

He  wuz  ez  sweet  a  child 
Ez  ever  gladdened  human  heart, 

Er  with  affection  smiled; 
And  handsome  !     Why,  the  little  lad 

Hed  laughin'  eyes  'nd  curls, 
'Nd  ways  ez  sweet  'nd  winsomelike 

Ez  enny  little  girls. 
He  wuz  a  little  shaver  then, 

A-borderin'  on  four; 
The  time  when  heaven  to  children  gives 

All  things  we  must  adore. 
The  way  he  crept  into  our  hearts 

And  grappled  every  string, 
And  ruled  us  all  et  his  sweet  will, 

Wuz  like  a  little  king  ! 
There  want  a  man  in  the  hull  camp 

But  loved  'im  ez  his  own, 
With  love  ez  tender  an'  ez  pure 

Ez  enny  ever  known. 

His  father  wuz  my  partner, 

'Nd  ez  good  'nd  brave  a  man 
Ez  ever  struck  the  hills  fer  gold 

W7ith  miner's  pick  'nd  pan. 
His  mother  wuz  a  faithful  wife — 

One  uv  those  jewels  pure, 
Who  fer  the  loved  ones  uv  their  heart 

Would  ennything  endure. 
She  died  afore  the  little  babe 

Her  mother-love  hed  known, 
And  Tom  wuz  left  with  Cricket  here 

To  struggle  on  alone. 
There  want  a  woman  in  the  camp, 

For  then  the  hills  wuz  wild; 
About  the  last  place  on  the  earth 

'Twuz  fer  a  little  child; 
But  Tom  wuz  mother  to  the  babe, 

And  et  wuz  sweet  to  see 
The  lovin',  patient  care  he  gave 

To  et  so  tenderly. 

155 


LITTLE   CRICKET. 

The  baby  somehow  grew  'nd  thrived, 

Escapin'  all  the  ills 
Which  like  a  host  uv  doubts  'nd  fears, 

The  parent  bosom  fills; 
He  wuz  so  peart  'nd  cheerin'  like 

He  jest  reached  out  'nd  drew 
The  feelin's  uv  all  hearts  to  him, 

'Nd  worked  'em  through  'nd  through. 
When  et  wuz  Christmas  'nd  the  lad 

Wuz  jest  a-turnin'  three, 
His  Pa  allowed  thet  we  must  have 

Fer  him  a  Christmas  tree. 
The  notion  took  like  wild-fire, 

And  all  around  about, 
Yer  could  a-heard  the  miners  all 

Second'd  et  with  a  shout! 
Each  one  uv  us  fell  to  'nd  worked 

Upon  this  novel  drift, 
All  bent  upon  discoverin' 

The  finest  Christmas  gift. 

There  want  no  gewgaws  in  them  parts, 

And  every  one  wuz  thrown 
Upon  his  own  resources,  which 

We  found  not  overgrown! 
We  owe  to  Nature  every  thing 

We  get,  while  here  we  live, 
But  in  most  cases  all  her  gifts 

Are  somewhat  primitive; 
And  most  uv  'em  would  hardly  do, 

I  think  we'll  all  agree, 
Fer  decoratin'  fer  a  child 

A  pleasin'  Christmas  tree! 
There  ain't  a  soul  in  all  the  earth 

But  et  would  please  to  see 
The  gifts  which  we  all  worked  'nd  brung 

To  thet  ar'  child  uv  three; 
And  when  we  hed  arranged  'em  all 

Bt  wuz  a  purty  sight; 
Ef  I  should  live  a  hundred  year, 

I'd  ne'er  forget  that  night. 


156 


UTTI.E   CRICKET. 

The  tree  wuz  right  smart  uv  a  spruce 

Set  in  a  cedar  block, 
Right  in  the  center  uv  the  room 

On  which  to  hang  our  stock; 
And  when  we'd  hung  our  presents  all, 

That  tree  hed  cur'us  fruit; 
'Twuz  wagons,  'barrows,  picks  'nd  spades 

And  other  things  to  boot! 
One  feller'd  gone  'nd  caught  a  'coon, 

Another'd  shot  a  fox 
And  made  fer  'im  the  cutest  caps 

'Nd  warmest  kind  uv  frocks; 
Whistles,  'nd  junipin'  jacks,  'nd  drums, 

And  every  kind  uv  toy 
Ez  enny  uv  us  could  opine 

Would  ever  please  the  boy. 
And  Ivittle  Cricket  laughed  with  glee, 

With  joy  a-most  went  mad, 
'Nd  every  man  in  the  hull  camp 

Wuz  mighty  nigh  ezglad. 

vSome  months  passed  by,  'nd  when  the  Spring 

The  hills  hed  carpeted 
W7ith  softest  grasses  green  'nd  fresh, 

And  poppies  gold  'nd  red; 
Our  Cricket  wuz  a-runnin' 

And  a-playin'  by  the  brook, 
And  in  each  corner  all  about 

Wuz  taken  uv  a  look; 
Et  jest  seemed  that  all  nature  wuz 

So  sweet,  'nd  pure,  'nd  mild, 
And  thet  her  every  tone  'nd  smile 

Wuz  mirrored  in  the  child. 
When  the  wild  flowers  bloomed  the  fairest, 

And  Spring-time  skies  wuz  blue, 
Kz  enny  thet  the  golden  stars 

Hed  ever  twinkled  through, 
Our  little  treasure  pined  away, 

And  God  to  us  denied, 
The  sweetest  jewel  uv  our  lives, 

When  Little  Cricket  died. 


157 


CRICKET. 

Et  would  a-broke  yer  heart  to  see 

The  grief  uv  Cricket's  Pa, 
Fer  while  love  ez  sweet  'nd  tender, 

Et's  nature's  strongest  law. 
I  tell  yer  et  wuz  terrible 

To  see  his  silent  grief, 
Ez  he  bowed  o'er  that  little  form, 

A-trimblin'  like  a  leaf; 
His  looks  wuz  so  appealin'  like, 

And  heavy  came  his  breath, 
When  he  fust  realized  the  truth 

Uv  little  Cricket's  death. 
He  took  the  cold  form  in  his  arms, 

Although  he  knew  'twuz  clay, 
And  pressed  et  to  his  heart  'nd  walked 

The  cabin  floor  all  day. 
When  evenin'  came  we  laid  the  child 

Beside  his  Ma  to  rest, 
A-prayin'  thet  his  spirit  form 

Wuz  on  her  spirit  breast. 

The  clouds  wuz  weepin'  softly  like  — 

The  brook  'nd  every  leaf 
Sounded  ez  ef  they,  too,  wuz  touched, 

By  Tom's  unspoken  grief. 
The  Summer  passed,  and  then  the  Fall 

Gave  way  to  Winter's  place; 
Fer  every  day  a  year  wuz  writ 

Upon  my  partner's  face. 
When  Christmas  came  he  got  a  tree, 

And  brought  the  toys  'nd  things, 
And  fixed  'em  ez  they  wuz  last  year, 

To  which  his  mem'ry  clings. 
When  evenin'  came  he  set  him  down 

Beneath  the  tree  alone; 
When  rnornin'  broke,  he  knew  it  not, 

His  spirit  sad  hed  flown! 
There  ain't  no  doubt  enters  my  mind 

But  thet  his  soul  wuz  given, 
To  wife  'nd  child  he  loved  so  well, 

For  Christmas  up  in  heaven. 


158 


EZ  FAITHFUL   EZ  A   DOG. 


The  yaller  threads  uv  sunlight  fell 

Acrost  the  rollin'  plain, 
Jest  ez  ef  the  cloudless  skies 

Wuz  weepin'  golden  rain; 
The  breezes  crept  among  the  grass, 

And  shook  each  slender  blade, 
Ez  ef  to  "  tag  "  each  one  uv  'em — 

The  game  we  children  played        / 
Way  back,  when  we  wuz  little  folks, 

And  fooled  the  hours  away; 
Jest  so  the  breezes  seemed  ter  do, 

Upon  this  Autumn  da}-. 
M}^  pony  jogged  a  lazy  pace 

Acrost  the  prairie  sea, 
Which  'lowed  my  thoughts  ter  amble  like 

Through  halls  o'  memory: 
"Til  I  wuz  fur  and  fur  remov'd 

Frurn  every  sight  'nd  sound 
Which  lay  stretched  out  before  me, 

'Nd  filled  the  air  around. 


159 


KZ    FAITHFUL,    EZ    A    DOG. 

I  wandered  o'er  the  days  gone  by, 

(Uv  course  all  in  my  mind) 
And  stopped  a  moment  at  the  spots 

I'd  loved  'nd  left  behind. 
The  old  log  house  where  I  wuz  born, 

Half  hid  with  tangled  vines, 
Which  clum  about  the  winders  like 

'Nd  took  the  place  of  blinds, 
Keepin'  the  sun  frum  comin'  in, 

With  full  force  on  the  floor, 
'Nd  crept  about  the  porch  'nd  wove 

An  arch-way  o'er  the  door. 
I  seem'd  ter  smell  the  flowers  that  bloom'd 

Along  the  graveled  walk, 
'Nd  hear  the  voices,  now  long  dead, 

Jest  as  they  used  ter  talk; 
Myself  a  little  shaver  there, 

A-playiri'  by  the  stream, 
A-chasin'  butterflies  'nd  bugs, 

'Twas  like  a  sollum  dream. 

My  pony  sudden  called  me  back 

By  givin'  sech  a  snort, 
Ez  ef  he  feared  his  roamin'  days 

Wuz  'bout  ter  be  cut  short. 
I  brought  my  trusty  rifle  up, 

'Nd  jerked  my  pistols  round, 
'Nd  swept  the  landscape  et  a  glance, 

Fur  et  was  level  ground. 
There  want  no  movin'  thing  in  sight, 

Save  buzzards  in  the  sky, 
Whose  silent  shadders  circled  round 

About  us  very  nigh. 
'Nd  then  I  know'd  them  birds  hed  come 

Et  call  of  something's  death; 
Thet  they  hed  scented  frum  afur 

The  victim's  tainted  breath. 
My  broncho  wuz  a-lookin'  like 

All  life  was  in  his  eyes, 
'Nd  I  wuz  still  half  guardin'  gainst 

Some  dangerous  surprise. 

160 


EZ    FAITHFUL   EZ   A   DOG, 

I  seed  a  wavin'  uv  the  grass, 

Which  wuz  not  uv  the  wind; 
Looked  clost,  an'  seed  that  et  wuz  made 

By  some  four-footed  kind. 
A  moment  more  'nd  then  a  dog 

Come  slowly  creepin'  on; 
He  wuz  the  wust  sight  thet  my  eyes 

Hed  ever  fell  upon. 
So  weak  and  starved,  he  couldn't  walk, 

But  slowly  crawled  to  me, 
With  his  great  brown  eyes  fixed  on  mine, 

Pleadin'  fur  sympathy. 
My  heart  ain't  soft  ez  't  useter  wuz, 

I  couldn't  see  quite  clear, 
'Nd  when  I  rubbed  my  eye,  my  hand 

Wuz  moistened  with  a  tear. 
I  jumped  frum  thet  'er  broncho  quick, 

'Nd  kneelin'  on  the  ground, 
I  took  thet  dog's  head  in  my  lap, 

Ez  though  a  child  I'd  found. 

My  canteen  yielded  up  the  hull 

Uv  life  et  hed  ter  give; 
I'd  rather  die  with  sech  a  dog 

Ez  with  some  humans  live. 
To  see  the  thanks  those  great  eyes  looked, 

'Nd  hur  his  greatful  whine, 
Wuz  honest  pay  fur  timely  help, 

Frum  Nature's  richest  mine. 
He  struggled  to  his  feet,  'nd  then 

Gazed  back  the  way  he'd  come, 
Looked  wistful  like,  'nd  whined,  'nd  pulled, 

'Nd  said  in  language  dumb: 
I've  sumethin'  hur  thet  needs  your  aid, 

Come  with  me,  Sur,  and  see." 
I  followed  on,  the  sight  I  saw 

Will  die  with  memory: 
There  on  the  ground  some  white  bones  lay, 

Bleached  by  the  rain  and  sun; 
Perfect -in  every  part  wur  they, 

A  human  skeleton! 


161 


EZ    FAITHFUL    EZ    A    DOG. 

There  this  grand,  noble  dog  hed  stood, 

Through  snow,  'nd  rain,  'nd  flood; 
A  faithful  guard  uv  him  he  loved 

Ez  pure  ez  human  could. 
The  grass  wuz  trampled  all  about, 

Where  he  hed  walked  his  beat ; 
All  birds  'nd  beasts  of  prey  hed  met, 

Fur  ghoulish  hopes,  defeat. 
The  dog,  himself  a  skeleton, 

Most  pitiful  to  see, 
Lay  down  'nd  whinin'  died,  'nd  turn'd 

His  vigil  o'er  to  me. 
I  hollowed  out  a  grave  fur  'em, 

'Nd  side  by  side  I  lay 
The  bones  uv  master  'nd  uv  dog, 

'Nd  went  my  lonely  way, 
A-thinkin'  what  a  welcome  home, 

All  souls  would  sure  receive, 
Ef  they  wuz  faithful  ez  a  dog, 

Though  they  no  creed  believe. 


162 


THE   SPERIT    MESSENGER. 

Slowly  the  feathery  snowflakes  fell 

Down  through  the  humid  air; 
A-windin'  round  ez  ef  they  loved 

To  kinder  loiter  there. 
The  sky  wuz  covered  with  a  shroud 

Uv  thick  and  sombre  gray; 
Fur  ez  the  eye  could  see,  the  flakes, 

Wuz  skippin'  in  their  play. 
The  ground  wuz  brown  'nd  bare  at  morn, 

But  long  'fore  noon  'twuz  white; 
The  trees  festooned  with  parian  wreaths  — 

They  wuz  a  purty  sight. 

Et  kept  a-fallin'  all  day  long, 

'Nd  weavin'  o'er  the  breast 
Uv  Nature  a  grand  mantle,  'til 

She  all  in  white  wur  dressed. 
Talk  'bout  adornin'  ez  a  bride! 

No  bride  on  earth  below 
Could  ever  look  ez  pure  'nd  fair 

As  that  true  virgin,  snow. 
'Nd  then  I  don't  know's  'twould  be  best; 

People  so  awful  good, 
I've  found,  have  less  of  sympathy 

Than  helpful  bein's  should. 

I  wuz  a-settin'  by  the  fire, 

After  the  gloamin'  fell; 
The  storm  wuz  whistlin'  round  the  eaves, 

With  many  a  screech  'nd  yell, 
Ez  though  the  very  imps  of  hate, 

Wuz  seekin'  with  each  breath, 
To  freeze  the  marrow  o'  the  bones 

Uv  all  who  waited  death. 
I  wuz  rejoicin'  that  for  me, 

The  storm  no  terrors  brought, 
'Nd  chucklin'   o'er  my  comforts  like, 

Perhaps,  more  'an  I  ought. 

163 


THE   SPERIT  MESSENGER. 

Old  Prince  was  lyin'  on  the  floor, 

Within  the  firelight's  gleam, 
A-restin'  like  fruni  vexins  free, 

Ez  in  a  quiet  dream. 
Perhaps  et  wuz  a  dream  — I've  hearn 

Folks  speak  uv  stranger  things, 
Ez  how  distress  er  sudden  joy, 

Flies  'bout  on  spirit  wings. 
But  sure  ez  dogs  ez  faithful,  friend, 

I  seed  another  come, 
'Nd  stand  in  front  of  Prince,  right  there, 

'Nd  say  in  language  dumb: 

"I  want  your  help,  old  fellow,  'nd 

Ef  you  will  come  with  me, 
I'll  show  you  how  to  do  some  good, 

'Nd  show  yer  sympathy." 
Prince  bounded  up,  an'  out  the  door 

He  flew  a-barkin'  loud; 
'Fore  I  wuz  fair  awake,  he  wuz 

Wrapped  in  the  fallin'  shroud. 
I  hustled  on  my  boots  'nd  furs, 

An'  followed,  ez  I  could, 
Down  through  the  clearin',  'nd  beyond 

Through  the  deep,  heavy  wood. 

'Nd  there  I  found  him  moanin'  loud, 

'Nd  callin'  through  the  storm, 
Fur  me  to  take  a  traveler  in, 

'Nd  keep  'im  safe  and  warm. 
There  o'er  the  master's  lay  the  form 

Uv  his  true,  noble  friend, 
Alike  in  life  'nd  death  the  same: 

Faithful  unto  the  end. 
'Nd  when  his  final  breath  expired, 

His  soul,  on  spirit  wing, 
Went  out  to  Prince  as  messenger, 

His  master  help  ter  bring. 


164 


BEAUTY   ON   A   POINT. 

Thar  ez  somethin'  mighty  catchin'  in  the  smart  'nd  silent  way 
Uv  the  bird  dog  in  approachin'  the  cover  uv  his  prey; 
The  way  uv  his  discernin'  whar  the  quail  er  snipe  ez  hid, 
'Nd  never  bein'  fooled  about  some  other  bird  inste'd; 
Jest  watch  'im  when  a-stiffenin'  ez  every  limber  joint 
Becomes  ez  rigid  ez  a  stone,  when  comin'  to  a  point. 

The  beautiful  Llewellyn,  er  the  pointer  slick  'nd  trim, 
Makes  a  pictur'  so  attractin'  thet  et  makes  all  others  dim; 
L/eastwise,  et  seems  so  unto  me  'nd  other  sportsmen,  too, 
And  ef  your  eyes  can  see  jest  right,  'twill  seem  so  unto  you; 
Fer  Nature's  done  her  level  best,  the  bird  dog  to  anoint, 
With  her  best  style  uv  beauty,  when  a-comin  to  a  point. 


165 


OUR  TONIEST    SASSIETY. 


Our  folks's  SOME  folks  now,  you  bet! 

Alluz  in  fer  songs  an'  rimes; 
There  ain't  nary  other  set 

Hez  sech  gosh,  all-\vhoopen  times. 
Candy  pullin's,  huskin  bees, 

Singin'  skewls  an'  spellin's  tew; 
Look  the  airth  o'er  whar  yer  please, 

Beatin'  us  ez  hard  ter  do. 

Ours's  the  oldest  family  here, 

Settled  back  in  forty-nine; 
Pop  wuz  out  a-shootin'  deer, 

When  he  struck  the  Croesus  mine. 
Laws  a-me!  the  gold  he  got 

Out  uv  the  fust  "  lead  "  he  struck, 
More'n  filled  the  stewin'  pot. 

'Twuz  a  most  amazin'  luck! 


Then  a  feller  cum  along, 

Nicest  man  yer  ever  see; 
An'  the  heft  uv  all  his  song 

Wuz  about  the  mine  an'  me! 
Sed  that  pop  should  drop  the  pick, 

Mam  an'  me  should  wear  fine  gowns, 
An'  be  just  ez  nice  an'  slick 

Ez  the  ladies  uv  the  towns. 


Pop,  he  listened  ter  his  talk, 

An'  they  made  sum  papers  out; 
'Fore  long  Pop  he  had  ter  "  walk," 

Can't  see  how  et  cum  about. 
But  he's  rustled  long  quite  well, 

An'  ain't  nearly  busted  yet; 
An'  we're  livin'  still  ter  tell 

How  ter  govern  uv  our  set. 

166 


OUR   TONIEST  SASSIETY. 

We've  the  biggest  house  about, 

Got  a  dandy  dancin'  room; 
An  there  ain't  no  sort  uv  doubt, 

That  we'll  ketch  on  with  the  "boom." 
There  ain't  no  sech  folks  for  style, 

We're  the  top,  my  ma  an'  me. 
Lord!  et  does  some  people  rile 

'Cause  we  lead  sassiety! 


WTe're  particklar  'bout  our  set, 

Only  let  in  jest  the  best; 
Browns's  left  out  in  the  wet, 

They'r  not  our  selectedest. 
'Twouldn't  do  fur  them  'ar  gals 

Ter  cum  in  a  set  with  me; 
Scan'lous  how  thar  daughter  Sal's 

Gittin'  forred-like  an'  free. 


She  do  think  she  be  so  smart, 

But  the  things  what  she  don't  know 
'Ud  break  down  a  loggin'  cart, 

For  she's  more'n  twicest  ez  slow. 
Last  week,  down  ter  Sunday  skewl, 

She  was  flirtin'  with  her  eyes, 
An'  allowin'  Lemuel's  mule, 

Wuz  better'n  eny  uv  its  size. 


She  must  think  he's  little  sense,    jt 

Fer  ter  think  the  likes  o'  her, 
Be's  uv  any  consequence, 

Fer  her  people  never  wur. 
He's  a  right  smart  of  a  man, 

An'  his  mother  ain't  so  slow; 
'Lowed  I  looked  right  spick  an'  span, 

In  my  new  red  calico. 

167 


OUR   TONIEST  SASSIETY. 

Lemuel's  smit  with  me,  I  know, 

Though  he  talks  with  other  girls; 
Mirandy  Jinks  an'  Lucy  Snow — 

Seed  'im  pull  Mirandy's  curls! 
But  whenever  he's  with  me, 

He  grows  silent  and  so  shy, 
That  he's  lovin',  I  kin  see; 

He  don't  do  much  else  'an  sigh! 

Cupid's  sech  a  cur'ous  elf; 

When  he's  shootin'  uv  his  bow, 
The  hit  heart  hoi's  still,  itself, 

So's  ter  get  another  blow! 
Willin'  game  ez  soonest  caught, 

But  again  it  might  be  rude, 
An'  I  don't  know  ez  I  ought, 

Turn  pursuer  when  pursued! 


My  red  dress  ez  sech  a  fit, 

Other  girls  haint  got  no  show  ; 
'Taint  no  wonder  Lemuel's  smit 

On  sech  charms  ez  mine,  yer  know! 
Wisht  he'd  hurry  up  a  bit; 

Christmas  time'll  soon  be  here, 
An'  I  wisht  that  we  cud  get 

Married  'fore  the  comin'  year. 


When  I  get  'im  now  you  bet, 
He  won't  talk  ter  other  girls; 

'Bout  one  lesson  an'  he'll  let 
S'm'other  feller  pull  their  curls! 

Next  chance  that  he  gets  ter  speak, 
I'll  jest  help  'im  all  I  can  — 

An'  I'll  say  when  he's  most  weak, 
"Speak  up,  Lemuel,  be  a  man!" 

1 68 


LIVIN'   FUREVER   IN    A    DAY. 


I've  hearn  'em  tell  uv  pleasures  rare, 

But  'talluz  seeni'd  ter  me 
Az  most  uv  folks  wuz  deaf  an'  dumb, 

An'  through  smoked  glasses  see. 
They'll  wander  round  and  spend  ther  time 

Alone  with  folks  and  books, 
Az  ef  thar  want  no  sech  good  things 

Az  mountains,  groves  an'  brooks. 
What  I  can't  see's  why  people  should 

Take  all  things  second  hand  ; 
Why  not  go  out  an'  gather  'em 

Fresh  frum  the  sea  an'  land  ? 


This  readin'  what  some  feller  writ, 

Or  listenin'  to  his  yarn 
'Bout  what  he  sees  of  this  'ere  world, 

To  me  ain't  wuth  a  darn, 
I'd  ruther  go  an'  get  et  fresh 

From  Mother  Nature's  lips  ; 
The  truth  from  her  in  one  short  hour 

Will  all  his  tales  eclipse. 
This  lookin'  through  some  other's  eyes, 

I'd  most  ez  lief  be  blind  ; 
An'  they  be  blind  ez  so's  content  — 

Least  wise  thet  ez  my  mind. 


169 


UVIN'    FUREVER    IN    A    DAY. 

An'  to  all  those  ez  think  they  know 

Life's  object's  gettin'  wealth, 
I  want  ter  tell  thet  gold  ez  trash 

Compar'd  to  bloomin'  health. 
The  mountain  brook  sings  sweet  fur  all, 

An'  nary  bogus  note 
Wuz  ever  issued  by  the  choir 

With  feathers  on  their  throat. 
Ef  these  'ere  things  yer  want  ter  prove, 

Jest  go  alone  ter  see ; 
Fur  whar  ther's  ary  other  one, 

Thar  ain't  no  room  fur  me. 


An'  so  I'm  goin'  out  next  week, 

Up  in  the  mountains,  whar 
The  foam  in'  waters  never  cease 

Thar  feelin's  to  declar  ; 
Whar  soft  winds  whisper  'mong  the  trees, 

An'  wild  birds  carol  free, 
An'  chipmunks  gambol  all  day  long 

'Til  sunset  paints  the  sea. 
I'll  "cast"  my  flies  in  that  ar  stream, 

An'  hook  the  gamy  trout, 
An'  live  furever  in  a  day 

Afore  you'v  found  et  out. 


MABEL    GRAY 


MABEL   GRAY. 


the  mountains  to  the  westward, 
In  the  country's  early  day, 
Dwelt  a  woodman,  with  his  family, 

From  the  city  far  away. 
Their  lone  cot  was  always  cheerful 

With  reward  of  honest  toil, 
Forgetting  all  the  outer  world 

With  its  bustle  and  turmoil. 
Lived  in  peace,  enjoying  plenty, 

For  their  wants  were  very  few, 
In  this  wildness  knew  more  pleasure 

Than  the  city  ever  knew. 
From  the  mountains,  to  the  westward 

Came  a  low-voiced  river's  flow, 
Which  had  birth  amid  the  mountains, 

Hooded  with  eternal  snow. 
To  the  southward,  a  short  distance, 

Cradled  in  the  wooded  hills, 
Lay  a  lake,  and  in  its  bosom 

Heaven's  bright  reflection  dwells. 
On  the  loftiest  hill  surrounding 

Grew  a  pine-tree  on  its  crest, 
WThere  a  pair  of  war-like  eagles 

For  long  years  had  built  their  nest. 
Now  the  Summer  was  departing, 

And  the  Autum's  sombre  breath 
Kissed  the  grass,  and  flowers,  and  foliage 

Left  them  beautiful  in  death. 


173 


Maple  leaves  with  gold  were  burnished  ; 

Oak  leaves  dipped  in  Summer's  blood  ; 
And  the  poplar  leaves  were  ashen, 

Brilliant  all  the  Autumn  wood. 
And  the  changing  of  the  season 

Could  be  seen  all  o'er  the  land, 
While  the  willow  and  the  pine  tree 

Held  the  dying  Summer's  hand. 


In  this  beauteous  spot,  enchanted, 

N  Dwelt  in  love  and  quietness 
Husband,  wife,  and  two  sweet  children. 

Rivaling  Eden's  loveliness  ; 
Two  sweet,  gentle,  lovely  sisters, 

One  with  mother's  hair  and  eyes, 
Shaming  with  their  wondrous  beauty 

Summer's  gold  and  mellow  skies; 
While  the  other  mirrored  father's 

Eyes  of  brown,  and  her  rich  hair 


174 


MABEL    GRAY. 

Caught  some  of  the  twilight  shadows 

And,  entangling,  held  them  there. 
Fannie  was  the  younger  sister, 

Scarcely  turned  the  age  of  four; 
Mabel's  years  did  her's  outnumber 

By  perchance  a  half  a  score, 
So  that  she  was  to  her  sister 

Guardian,  playmate,  guide  and  friend 
And  her  constancy  undying 

Was  devoted  to  the  end. 

In  this  Autumn's  early  season, 

As  the  angels  of  the  morn 
In  the  East  began  proclaiming 

That  another  day  was  born, 
Roused  the  husband  and  the  father, 

Roused  the  mother  and  the  wife, 
He,  to  start  upon  a  journey, 

She,  to  warn  him  of  the  strife 
And  the  dangers  all  about  him, 

As  his  solitary  way, 
To  the  distant  village,  eastward, 

Through  wild  woods  and  marshes  lay. 
Reassuring,  then,  he  kissed  her; 

Held  her  fondly  to  his  breast; 
Kissed  his  loving  children  sleeping, 

Smiling  sweetly  in  their  rest. 
Silently  he  prayed  God's  blessing 

Might  be  with  them,  night  and  morn, 
And  His  guardian  spirit  guide  them 

Safely,  until  his  return. 
Then  he  hastily  departed 

Up  the  winding  eastern  way, 
As  the  sky  was  growing  brighter 

With  the  heralds  of  the  day. 
When  he  reached  the  mountain  summit, 

He  turned  round,  to  view  the  scene 
Of  the  valley  far  below  him, 

Slumb'ring  calmly  and  serene. 
The  river's  peaceful,  winding  course, 

Down  the  mountains,  through  the  mist, 


175 


MABEL    GRAY. 

Which,  by  rosy  lips  of  morning, 

Into  beauty  had  been  kissed; 
The  lake  glowing  like  the  armor    • 

Of  some  knightly  warrior  bold, 
While  over  all  the  scene  was  thrown 

Autumn's  robe  of  brown  and  gold; 
And  nestling  'mid  the  maple  trees 

His  rude  home,  where  loved  ones  dwell; 
On  them  all  he  asks  God's  blessing, 

And  then  breathes  a  fond  farewell. 
Softly  creep  the  rays  of  sunshine, 

O'er  the  eastern  mountain's  brow; 
All  the  river  and  the  woodland 

Glow  with  sunlit  beauty  now. 

Then  the  mother  wakes  the  children, 

And  their  frugal  meal  prepares, 
And  to  gather  fruits  for  Winter, 

To  the  orchard  wild  repairs, 
Charging,  first,  the  elder  sister 

With  the  darling  baby's  care, 
That  no  sorrow  come  unto  her, 

Clouding  childish  face  so  fair. 
Then  strong-hearted,  busy-fingered  — 

For  love  made  her  labor  light  — 
'Til  the  Gheber's  god,  declining, 

Hinted  of  the  coming  night  ; 
When,  returning  to  her  dear  home, 

Rich  with  heavy-laden  store, 
Of  the  gifts  which  Nature,  freely, 

Giveth  ever  to  the  poor; 
Found  the  house  all  strangely  silent: 

Through  the  careless,  open  door, 
Streamed  the  evening's  golden  sunlight, 

O'er  the  rough-hewn,  puncheon  floor. 
But  no  children  came  to  greet  her, 

And  no  welcome  caught  her  ear. 
Then  her  bosom  quick  was  heaving 

With  a  weight  of  awful  fear; 
Searched  she  quickly  all  the  house  through, 

And  the  clearing  round  about ; 


176 


MABEI,     GRAY. 

Came  no  answer  to  her  calling, 

Save  the  echo  of  her  shout. 
Mad  with  fear,  with  terror  stricken, 

Here  and  there  she  rushed  in  haste, 
Calling  loudly  to  her  darlings  — 

But  deserted  was  the  place. 
"Speak,  ye  stones,  ye  trees,  and  tell  me! 

Speak,  oh  speak,  ye  silent  air  ! 
Tell  me,  oh  ye  winds,  in  sighing, 

Where  my  precious  children  are!" 
Night  came  on,  and  yet  no  tidings     - 

From  her  loved  ones  could  she  hear; 
Silent  all  the  scene  about  her, 

As  of  one  vast  sepulcher. 

All  night  long,  from  out  the  darkness, 

Hideous  forms  and  shapes  arose, 
As  of  damned  spirits  mocking 

At  her  misery  and  woes: 
Saw  them  seize  her  darling  children, 

As  in  wild  and  fiendish  glee; 
Dance  and  chatter,  wildly  laughing, 

At  her  awful  misery. 
Then  she  rose  and  dashed  upon  them  — 

For  all  hell,  with  fury  wild, 
Cannot  conquer  the  deep  passion, 

Of  a  mother  for  her  child. 
This  the  picture  —  this  the  torture, 

O'er  and  o'er,  and  o'er  again, 
Like  a  sea  of  seething  madness, 

Rolling  on  her  heart  and  brain; 
Calling  God  to  save  her  darlings 

From  the  phantom  demon's  rage  ; 
Through  that  night's  long  hours  of  darkness- 

Every  moment  w*as  an  age! 
For  deep  sorrow  checks  time's  motion, 

While  one's  life  flows  swiftly  on, 
So  that  ages  pass  ere  morrow, 

Breaks  the  darkness  with  its  dawn. 

So  it  was  wdth  this  poor  mother  : 
Every  feeling  of  her  heart 

177 


MABEL     GRAY. 

Had  been  strained  until  each  life-cord 

Was  full  ready  now  to  part. 
Morning  came,  and  then  the  neighbors, 

Hearing  of  the  children  lost, 
Started  out,  in  haste,  to  find  them, 

Caring  not  for  any  cost. 
Searched  they  through  the  fields  and  forests, 

Dragged  the  lake  and  river-bed, 
But  they  yielded  up  no  token: 

Surely,  then,  they  were  not  dead! 
For  the  river's  lips,  though  ever 

Murmuring  their  low,  sweet  sound, 
Are  most  treacherous  and  cruel, 

As  the  world  has  ever  found. 
Many  innocent  and  lovely 

Ones,  have  found  beneath  its  waves, 
From  a  life  of  joyous  sunshine, 

Sudden,  dark,  untimely  graves. 
And  the  lake  with  placid  bosom, 

Seeks  our  fears  to  e'er  beguile, 
Yet  its  grasp  is  dreadful  murder, 

And,  while  murdering,  would  smile. 


178 


Fannie!  Fannie!    Come  here,  darling!" 


II. 


LONE  hunter  in  the  forest, 

In  the  wild  and  trackless  waste, 
Where  the  foot  of  pale-faced  human 

Never  had  before  been  placed, 
I^aid  him  down  to  rest  a  moment, 

In  that  wilderness  alone, 
When  his  practiced  ear  was  startled 

By  a  far-ofT  human  tone. 
He  inclined  his  head  to  listen  — 

Softly,  faintly  on  the  breeze, 
Came  a  gently  murmuring  cadence, 

Floating  weirdly  through  the  trees. 
'Twas  a  tone  of  gentle  pleading, 

Full  of  love  and  tenderness, 

179 


MABEL     GRAY. 

As  of  one  whose  soul  \vas  troubled, 

With  a  load  of  deep  distress: 
"Fannie!  Fannie!  come  here,  darling! " 

Were  the  words  it  seemed  to  say; 
"  We  must  hasten  home  to  mother, 

From  this  dismal  place  away; 
Come  here,  Fannie,  coine  here,  darling, 

Fly  from  sister  not  away, 
For  with  searching  I'm  so  weary, 

And  we  must  no  longer  stay. 
Come  to  sister,  little  darling, 

Come,  I've  found  your  little  hood  ; 
We  must  hasten  home  to  mother, 

From  this  dark  and  dismal  wood." 
"I  was  dreaming  —  surely  dreaming," 

Said  he,  as  he  heard  no  more; 
"It  w7as  but  the  soft  wind's  sighing, 

Through  the  trees  and  o'er  the  moor. 
Then  he  heard  the  bushes  rustle; 

Heard  a  soft  and  stealthy  tread. 
Seized  he  quick  his  trusty  rifle, 

With  a  feeling  of  deep  dread; 
For  his  nerves  were  badly  shaken 

With  the  weirdness  of  the  sound; 
Could  it  be  that  this  wild  forest 

Was  enchanted,  haunted  ground? 
Like  a  statue  stood  he,  fearing 

To  breathe  freely,  lest  his  breath 
Should  give  warning  of  his  presence, 

And  discovery  be  death. 
Thus  he  stood  there,  greatly  fearing 

To  advance  or  to  retreat; 
Wishing  well  the  struggle  over, 

Be  it  vict'ry  or  defeat. 
Then  once  more  the  soft  voice  uttered 

The  same  language  once  again, 
As  some  lovely  child  addressing, 

In  this  coaxing,  low  refrain: 
'Fannie!  Fannie!  come  here,  darling; 

Come  to  sister,  precious  one ! 


1 80 


MABEL     GRAY. 

We  must  hasten  home  to  mother, 

For  she's  lonely  while  we're  gone." 
With  amazement  dumb,  confounded, 

Heard  the  hunter  this  refrain; 
Then  at  intervals  repeated, 

Came  the  same  weird  tone  again, 
O'er  and  o'er  the  words  repeating, 

With  a  tenderness  so  deep, 
Was  each  word  with  pleading  weighted, 

They  would  cause  a  stone  to  weep. 
And  the  hunter  dropped  his  weapon. 

Strong  emotion  shook  his  frame, 
And  his  eyes  were  dim  with  weeping, 

As  the  tears  with  freedom  came, 
Coursing  down  his  bearded  visage, 

With  that  strong,  resistless  flow, 
Only  known  when  hearts  are  melted 

By  another's  grief  and  woe. 

Roused  he,  then,  and  onward  started 

To  the  troubled  one's  relief, 
Trusting  he  might  comfort  bring  her, 

And  assuage  her  heavy  grief. 
Softly,  then,  his  steps  advancing, 

For  the  woods  were  filled  with  foes, 
Came  he  near  the  spot,  where,  seeming, 

To  his  ear,  the  voice  arose. 
Then  with  care  the  bushes  parted, 

And  beheld  a  maiden  fair, 
Clothed  with  torn  and  tattered  garments, 

\Vith  unbound  and  streaming  hair; 
And  with  wondrous  eyes,  wrhose  gleaming 

Glance  was  fastened  on  a  bird 
Flitting  round  amid  the  branches, 

From  her  parted  lips  he  heard: 
'Fannie!  Fannie!  come  here,  darling; 

Come  to  sister,  precious  one; 
We  must  hasten  home  to  mother, 

For  she's  lonely  when  we're  gone." 
But  the  wild  bird,  all  unheeding, 

In  its  joyous  life  so  free, 


181 


MA  EEL     GRAY. 

The  words  of  the  little  maiden, 

Flitted  on  from  tree  to  tree, 
And  she  followed,  softly  calling, 

O'er  and  o'er,  her  sad  refrain, 
And  her  sweet  voice  grew  more  cheerful, 

As  she  neared  the  bird  again; 
Till,  at  length,  it  plumed  its  bright  wings, 

For  a  loftier  flight  away, 
In  the  blue  sky's  mellow  arches, 

Where  alone  is  perfect  day. 
Then  the  ravings  of  the  maiden, 

In  her  helpless,  wild  despair, 
Filled  with  woeful  lamentations 

All  the  sombre  Autumn  air: 


Fannie!  Fannie!  why,  my  darling 

Have  you  now  so  wilfull  grown? 
Why,  oh  darling,  will  you  leave  me 

In  this  dreadful  place  alone? 
Come  back,  Fannie;  come  back,  sister; 

I  have  found  your  little  hood; 
We  must  hasten  home  to  mother, 

From  this  dark  and  dismal  wood." 


But  no  answer  to  her  calling 

Save  its  echoing  refrain, 
Came  from  out  the  silent  wild\vood 

To  relieve  her  tortured  brain. 
Came  no  soothing  for  her  anguish, 

Came  no  balm  for  her  deep  grief, 
Save  the  requiem  in  the  branches, 

O'er  the  death  of  falling  leaf. 
As  in  sympathy  the  heavens 

O'er  the  scene  drew  sombre  veil, 
And  the  tender  winds  more  sadly 

Echoed  her  despairing  wail, 
While  the  gloaming  shadows  faintly 

From  the  westward  slowly  crept, 
And  the  ashen  clouds  in  sorrow 

Sympathetically  wept. 

182 


GRAY. 

Then  the  hunter  came  unto  her, 

As  she  lay  upon  the  ground, 
And  she  knew  it  not;  her  sobbing 

Shut  from  her  all  other  sound. 
Stood  in  sympathetic  silence, 

For  no  words  can  e'er  express, 
The  feeling  for  another's  woe, 

For  the  human  heart's  distress. 
Long  he  stood,  'til  she  grew  calmer, 

Until  hushed  became  her  moan, 
Knowing  that  deep  grief's  a  burden 

All  must  bear  and  bear  alone. 
Then  he  spoke  unto  the  maiden: 

"  Why  girl,  you're  troubled,"  he  said. 

She  turned  her  glance  upon  him,  then, 

Shrieking  wildly,  quickly  fled 
Up  the  steep  and  rugged  mountain 

'Til  a  chasm  crossed  her  way; 
Out  she  leaped,  and  at  its  bottom 

Torn  and  bruised  and  bleeding  lay. 
There  the  hunter  quickly  found  her, 

With  her  heart-beats  faint  and  low, 
WThile  from  out  her  wounds  was  streaming 

Fast  her  life  in  crimson  flowT. 
From  the  brook  he  bathed  her  temples, 

Wet  her  swollen,  parched  lips, 
Chafed  her  hands,  and  saw  the  life  blood 

Glowing  at  her  finger  tips. 
Then,  to  consciousness  returning, 

Slowly  opened  she  her  eyes, 
And  the  glance  she  turned  upon  him 

Was  of  wonder  and  surprise; 
Not  the  weird  and  wildly  gleaming, 

When  at  first  her  voice  he  heard, 
As  she  stood  there  in  the  forest, 

Pleading  strangely  with  the  bird, 
But  a  glance  which  spoke  of  reason, 

Then  her  pain  called  forth  a  moan, 
And  she  feebly  asked  the  hunter  : 
"  Why  am  I  here  and  alone  ?" 


183 


MABEI,     GRAY. 

And  he  said  :  "  Rest,  child,  a  moment, 

And  then  tell  me  how  you  come 
To  be  straying  in  this  wildwood  ; 

Where  is  your  home  ?  What  is  your  name  ?' 
Then  she  told  him  that  her  dear  home 

By  a  lake  and  river  lay  ; 
How  she  lost  her  little  sister  ; 

That  her  name  \vas  Mabel  Gray. 

Now  the  hunter  well  remembered 

Lake  and  river,  and  the  home, 
And  he  wondered  at  the  distance 

The  poor  girl  had  safely  come 
Through  the  dreary,  trackless  forest, 

Filled  with  savage  beasts  of  prey. 
Perchance  her  strongest  guardian  \vas 

Her  weird,  wild  insanity. 
Then  he  wound  his  coat  about  her, 

Lifted  her  with  tenderness, 
Started  forth  upon  his  mission, 

Her  lone  parents'  hearts  to  bless: 
Knowing  that  the  soul  that  giveth 

Is  the  soul  that  liveth  most  ; 
He  who  others'  burdens  beareth 

Is  unto  himself  a  host. 
And  the  way,  despite  his  burden, 

Shortened  quickly,  day  by  day, 
And  grew  brighter  and  still  brighter 

As  he  onward  pushed  his  way, 
'Til  at  length  he  climbed  the  mountain, 

Saw  the  valley  far  below  ; 
Saw  the  lake  in  brightness  gleaming  ; 

Heard  the  low-voiced  river's  flow. 
Then  he  shouted  with  his  coming, 

Bounding  swiftly  o'er  the  ground  : 
"Rise  and  sing  loud  hallelujahs, 

For  behold,  the  lost  is  found  !  " 


184 


MABEL     GRAY. 

Found  !  but  oh,  how  weak  !     Poor  Mabel, 

Helpless  as  a  babe,  new-born, 
Now  subsided  fear  and  fever, 

Tender  limbs  all  bruised  and  torn  ! 
There  she  lay  upon  her  pillow, 

Scarcely  conscious  of  the  bliss, 
Which  thrilled  all  her  soul  and  being, 

At  her  parents'  loving  kiss. 
'Mabel,  darling,"  said  her  mother, 

"  Where  is  Fannie  ?  "     Mabel  sighed, 
And  unto  her  mother's  question 

For  her  answer  thus  replied : 


III. 


'Mother,  bear  with  me  a  little  — 

Just  a  very  little  while  ; 
I  did  cling  so  close  to  Fannie 

As  we  clambered  o'er  the  stile  ; 
Then  across  the  dusty  highway, 

To  the  grove  of  pifion  trees, 
Where  the  ripest  nuts  were  falling, 

Shaken  by  the  passing  breeze. 
There  we  played,  and  laughed,  and  shouted, 

In  our  merriment  and  glee  — 
Fannie  never  seemed  so  happy 

As  in  playing  there  with  me  ; 
'Til,  at  length,  we  both  grew  weary, 

And  we  laid  us  down  to  rest, 
Fannie's  golden  head,  so  curly, 

Pillowed  safely  on  my  breast. 
And  I  thought  me  not  to  slumber, 

But  strict  watch  o'er  sister  keep, 


MABEL     GRAY. 

"While  she  drew  new  strength,  refreshing, 

From  the  wonder-land  of  sleep. 
As  through  interlacing  branches, 

Looked  I  on  the  deep  blue  sky, 
Came  a  fleecy  cloudlet  drifting 

O'er  the  opening  slowly  by. 
Then  the  South  wind  breathed  more  warmly, 

Whispered  louder  to  the  trees, 
And  to  me  'twas  sweetest  music  — 

Half  forgotten  melodies  ! 
For  a  moment  then  I  listened  ; 

Then  I  slowly  closed  mine  eyes, 
And  the  music  grew  far  sweeter  — 

Like  your  old,  sweet  lullabies. 
My  head  rested  on  your  bosom, 

Free  from  every  care  and  pain, 
And  I  felt  your  arms  entwining 

Round  about  my  form  again  ; 
Felt  your  gentle  fingers  toying 

With  the  ringlets  on  my  brow  ; 
Felt  your  gentle  kiss,  so  loving, 

As  I  do,  dear  mother,  now. 

"While,  half  conscious,  I  lay  dreaming, 

Felt  I  wave  of  pinions  there  ; 
Saw  —  or  seemed  to  see  —  sweet  Fannie 

\Vafted  upward  through  the  air. 
Then  I  woke,  and  all  was  darkness  ! 

All  was  silent  !  save  the  moan 
Of  the  swaying  trees  above  me  — 

But,  oh  God,  I  was  alone  ! 
Fannie  !  Fannie  !    called  I,  groping 

All  about  the  darkened  wood, 
But  I  found  her  not,  nor  nothing, 

Save  alone  her  little  hood. 
Called  I  louder  ;  but  the  echo 

Of  my  voice  alone  replied, 


186 


MABKI,     GRAY. 

"As  it  bounded  from  the  hillside, 

And  then  fainter  grew,  and  died. 
And  the  moon  her  face  had  shrouded, 

And  the  stars  refused  to  shine, 
On  such  wild  and  awful  terror, 

As  now  froze  this  heart  of  mine. 
And  the  night  winds  chill  and  clammy, 

From  the  .marshes  and  the  fen, 
Sobbing  weirdly,  kissed  my  forehead, 

Then  swept  onward  down  the  glen. 
And  the  ivy  vine,  in  swaying, 

Swept  across  my  neck  and  face, 
As  a  serpent  to  enfold  me 

In  its  poisonous  embrace. 
Then  the  darkness  grew  and  thickened, 

So  that  nothing  could  I  see  — 
The  heavens  black  and  chill  above, 

As  the  cold  earth  under  me. 
Then  I  held  my  breath  to  listen: 

All  was  silent  as  the  dead, 
Save  the  winds  among  the  branches, 

Gently  sighing,  overhead. 
Stood  I  long  in  silence,  listening, 

Hoping  I  might  hear  her  voice, 
Calling  to  me  from  the  forest, 

Bidding  my  sad  heart  rejoice. 
She  is,  thought  I,  in  the  wildwood, 

Close  behind  some  stump  or  tree; 
Surely  she  will  hear  me  calling, 

And  come  bounding  forth  to  me. 

"Fannie!  Fannie!    still  I  shouted, 
Come  to  sister,  blessed  one; 

We  must  hasten  home  to  mother, 

For  she's  lonely  while  we're  gone. 

Come  to  sister,  little  darling; 

Come,  I've  found  your  little  hood; 


187 


MABEL    GRAY. 

"  We  must  hasten  home  to  mother, 
From  this  dark  and  dismal  wood. 

"Then  a  strange  and  awful  trembling 

Shook  me  as  strong  winds  the  leaf; 
I  forgot  all  other  feeling, 

All  of  sorrow  and  of  grief. 
I  could  see  her  just  before  me, 

Plainly  as  I  see  you  now, 
With  her  silken,  sun-kissed  ringlets, 

Lying  on  her  love-lit  brow. 
Hither,  thither,  through  the  forest, 

Playing  hide-and-seek  with  me, 
Always  laughing,  always  cheerful, 

Full  of  merriment  and  glee. 
I  saw  nothing  but  dear  Fannie, 

Until  by  the  hunter  found, 
As  I  lay  all  bruised  and  bleeding, 

On  the  cold  and  stony  ground." 

Then,  her  gentle  face  up-turning, 

Through  the  window  to  the  sky, 
Whispered:  "Mother,  do  you  think  it 

Such  an  awful  thing  to  die? 
Mother,  I  shall  not  be  with  you 

But  a  very  little  time, 
I  am  going  to  another, 

Better,  sweeter,  brighter  clime. 
Listen!  don't  you  hear  the  voices 

Speaking  to  us  everywhere  ? 
Hear  the  leaves  and  flowers,  in  dying, 

Filling  all  the  sky  with  prayer? 
Angel  hosts  are  sweetly  singing 

Melodies  so  soft  and  low  ; 
They  are  calling  to  me,  mother, 

Calling  to  me  now,  to  go. 
In  their  midst  is  little  Fannie, 

Clad  in  robes  of  spotless  white  ; 


188 


MABEI,    GRAY. 

'She  is  smiling  now  a  welcome  — 
A  pleased  welcome  of  delight  ! 

She  is  calling,    'Mabel,  Mabel, 
Come  to  little  sister  now  ; 

Come  and  wear  a  robe  of  beauty 

And  a  wreath  upon  your  brow  ! ' 

Fannie,  darling,  I  am  coming, 
Coming  to  you,  blessed  one  ! 

And  we'll  watch  and  wait  for  mother, 
'Til  the  angels  bid  her  come. 

Sweeter,  sweeter  grows  the  music, 

Brighter,  brighter  grows  the  sky  ; 

Hear  the  waving  of  their  pinions- 
Good-bye,  mother;  all,  good-bye  !' 


And  they  laid  her  in  the  valley, 

Underneath  the  woodland  trees, 
Where  at  morning  and  at  evening, 

Sinks  to  rest  the  woodland  breeze. 
Clouds  of  Winter  o'er  the  brown  earth 

A  soft  mantle  wove  of  snow, 
Still  of  little  Fannie's  dark  fate 

They  no  certainty  could  know, 
Until  low-voiced  Spring  came  bringing 

Her  sweet  birds  and  blooming  flowers, 
And  earth's  garments  green  were  woven 

By  the  sunshine  and  the  showers. 
Save  the  pine  tree  by  the  blue  lake, 

Where  the  eagles  built  their  nest, 
All  the  countless  trees  around  it, 

Were  in  garments  richly  dressed. 


189 


MABEL     GRAY. 

But,  like  a  blackened  skeleton, 

From  which  all  power  of  life  had  fled, 
It  stood  among  its  fellow  trees 

Alone,  loveless,  leafless,  dead. 
And,  at  length,  beneath  the  woodman's 

Keen-edged  axe,  it  quickly  fell, 
And  the  secret,  so  well  hidden, 

Did  thus  by  its  falling  tell : 
In  the  eagle's  nest  was  woven, 

With  the  moss  and  grasses  there  — 
Startling  him  who  did  behold  them  — 

Silken  strands  of  golden  hair. 


190 


BLOSSOMS    AND    BRIERS 


THOSE  EYES  OF   BROWN 


M 


THOSE   EYES   OF   BROWN. 


In  all  the  world  there  is  but  one 

Pair  of  eyes  of  brown, 
That  are  more  beauteous  than  the  sun 

When  it  goes  down. 
They  shine  at  morn,  at  noon,  at  night, 

Always  for  me, 
With  love's  enchanting,  trustful  light 

Of  harmony. 

Beside  those  eyes  the  star-beams  shine 

But  languid,  dull; 
To  me  their  light  is  all  divine  — 

Most  wonderful! 
And  when  their  curtains  softly  fall, 

So  coyly  down, 
I  love  them  more  than  life,  than  all  — 

Those  eyes  of  brown. 

When  crimson  blushes  upward  sweep 

O'er  lips  and  face, 
And  slowly  from  her  fair  cheeks  creep 

With  matchless  grace, 
Were  I  possessed  of  all  the  earth  — 

A  royal  crown ! 
I'd  give  it  all  to  match  their  worth  — 

Those  eyes  of  brown. 

In  them  sweet  Summer  ever  shines, 

And  fair  flowers  bloom; 
There  Pleasure  stores  her  richest  rnines- 

In  them  is  room 
For  every  thought  of  peace  and  love 

My  life  to  crown, 
With  joys  surpassing  heaven's  above  — 

Those  eyes  of  brown. 


193 


WAITING. 


I  sit  alone  within  my  room, 

While  evening  shadows  softly  fall, 

Filling  each  nook  about  with  gloom, 
And  slowly  creep  athwart  the  wall; 

The  clock  in  doleful  silence  ticks 
The  hour  of  six. 


The  ruddy  fire  all  brightly  burns; 

The  stand  near  by  with  open  books; 
An  empty  easy-chair  which  yearns 

For  some  one's  coming  —  so  it  looks; 
I  count  each  moment  as  'tis  given, 
'Til  hour  of  seven. 


I  pace  the  floor  with  measured  tread, 
And  ear  attentive  to  each  sound; 

A  doubt  creeps  in  —  a  thought  of  dread  — 
Her  footsteps  are  not  homeward  bound; 

How  can  it  be  she  stays  so  late? 
The  clock  strikes  eight! 


Footsteps!  Ah,  surely  she  is  come! 

I  haste  to  greet  her  at  the  door, 
But  all  without  again  is  dumb, 

Though  I  call  to  her  o'er  and  o'er, 
I  cannot  glean  of  her  a  sign; 

The  clock  strikes  nine! 

Oh,  anxious  heart,  be  still,  be  calm; 

Though  cloud-tears  mark  the  window  pane, 
Thy  waiting  sweetens  but  the  balm 

That  she  will  bring  thee  through  the  rain. 
That  she  will  bring  me?     Ah,  but  when? 
The  clock  strikes  ten! 


194 


WAITING. 

Now  drag  the  night-hours  slowly  by; 

The  fire  within  the  grate  low  burns; 
My  fevered  lips  are  parched  and  dry, 

My  wretched  heart,  oh,  how  it  yearns! 
A  hell,  where  might  have  been  a  heaven! 
The  clock  strikes  'leven! 

My  eyes  close  slowly,  and  my  head 
Will  droop  upon  my  weary  breast; 

Some  Siren  with  the  rain  is  wed  — 
She  sings  so  sweetly  now  of  rest. 

Into  life's  mystery  I  delve  — 

The  clock  strikes  twelve. 

How  peaceful  and  how  light  my  heart! 

How  beautiful  all  things  now  seem ! 
Swiftly  the  evening  hours  depart, 

And  firesides  warmly,  brightly  gleam; 
All  cares  are  banished  with  the  sun. 
The  clock  strikes  one. 

I  hear  a  footstep  at  the  door! 

Into  my  arms  in  haste  she  springs, 
And  love  expresses  o'er  and  o'er, 

As  to  my  breast  she  sweetly  clings. 
Sweetheart!     How  loving  and  how  true! 
The  clock  strikes  two. 

We  chat  beside  the  glowing  fire, 

And  read  some  stanzas  from  the  book; 

Love  leaves  unanswered  no  desire, 
But  speaks  in  every  tone  and  look; 

Life  seems  one  dazzling,  love-lit  sea  — 
The  clock  strikes  three. 

She  sings  so  sweetly  the  old  songs; 

I  kiss  her  shining  hair  and  eyes; 
She  coyly  says:    "  To  thee  belongs 

These  lips."     I  answer  with  replies, 
Perhaps  a  dozen,  if  not  more. 
The  clock  strikes  four. 


195 


THE  RULE  TO  LIVE. 

We  kneel  again  at  evening  prayer, 

Silent,  beside  our  snowy  bed: 
Oh,  God,  our  every  secret  share, 

And  our  fond  hearts  more  firmly  wed; 
Bring  us  to  thee;  for  this  we  strive  — 
The  clock  strikes  five. 

The  gray  dawn  streams  across  the  sky; 

How  cold!  how  cold!  Mamie,  my  dear, 
Art  waking,  love?  but  no  reply: 

My  God!  a  dream!  she  is  not  here. 
Laugh,  fiends!  and  hemlock-juices  mix  — 
The  clock  strikes  six. 


THE    RULE   TO  LIVE. 

"As  Thou  wilt,  Lord,"  young  Robin  said, 

And  each  day  said  anew, 
And  walked  in  paths  of  pleasantness, 
To  manhood  firm  and  true. 

Each  morn  to  him  was  God's  rich  gift  — 

An  opportunity, 
To  aid  his  fellow  mortals  on, 

O'er  life's  tempestuous  sea. 

He  loved  not  riches  to  exclude, 

From  out  his  honest  mind, 
The  fairest  flowers  and  richest  fruits, 

Bestowed  upon  mankind. 

But  in  their  season  of  them  all, 

To  uses  good  applied, 
And  all  who  knew  him,  loved  him  well, 

And  mourned  him  \vhen  he  died. 

Be  kind,  be  generous,  be  true, 

And  unto  others  give, 
A  life  which  daily  proves  itself 

A  blessing  while  you  live. 


196 


MY  WORLD. 

I  have  a  world  —  'tis  all  my  own, 

More  beautiful  and  fair  to  see, 
Than  aught  this  world  has  ever  known  — 

Where  all  is  love  and  purity. 

Its  rivers  broad,  its  purling  rills, 
With  music  sweet  the  soul  delight; 

Its  lovely,  mist-enshrouded  hills, 
Are  ever  charming  to  niy  sight. 

Its  mountains  rear  majestically, 
Far,  far  aloft,  their  regal  heads, 

Where  sport  soft  Summer  winds  at  play, 
And  soul  with  angel-spirit  weds. 

Its  broad,  high  plains  of  active  thought, 
Where  every  breath  expands  the  soul; 

Where  every  pleasure  conies  unsought, 
And  youth  remains  while  ages  roll. 

Where  ever  glows  the  sun  of  peace, 

Where  blooms  affection's  fairest  flowers; 

Where  love  and  hope  and  trust  increase, 
With  endless  flight  of  Summer  hours. 

A  cottage  on  the  hillside  stands, 

O'erlooking  meadows  decked  with  flowers, 
And  spirit  forms  with  magic  wands, 

Enchant  and  bless  the  golden  hours. 

About  the  door  the  ivy  clings, 

And  with  its  slender  tendrils  weave 

A  magic  pattern,  which  it  flings 
At  either  side,  along  the  eaves. 

About  its  windows  blooms  the  rose, 

Which  fills  the  air  with  sweet  perfume, 

And  woos  the  sense  to  sweet  repose, 
When  falls  the  evening's  quiet  gloom. 


197 


EADENS   I'M    SEEKING   TO    FIND. 

A  mother  sits  within  the  door, 

With  mother  love  her  face  most  fair; 

While  sunlight  glinting  o'er  the  floor, 
Falls  on  a  cherub  sleeping  there. 

A  brown-eyed  boy  with  golden  hair, 
With  chubby  hands  and  dimpled  chin, 

And  soul  as  pure  as  Heaven's  air, 
Where  falleth  no  dark  shade  of  sin. 

How  my  poor  heart  doth  for  them  yearn, 
To  fold  them  to  my  bosom  now; 

And  kiss  them  each  again,  in  turn, 
On  ruby  lips  and  love-lit  brow! 

I  love  the  night,  for  then  it  seems 
They  come  with  love's  sweet  smile  to  me, 

And  in  those  dear,  enchanted  dreams, 
I  live  in  true  reality. 


EDENS    I'M    SEEKING    TO    FIND. 

Come,  sit  here,  my  friend,  while  I  draw  back  the  curtain, 
Which  hangs  o'er  my  heart  and  its  secrets  enfold 

Of  mysteries  deep,  and  strange  feelings  uncertain, 
Which  slowly,  but  surely,  are  making  me  old. 

I  would  I  were  able  in  language  to  utter, 

And  speak  forth  my  thought,  that  you  might  understand, 
But  the  best  I  can  do  is  only  to  mutter  — 

For  language  is  dull,  save  the  glance  and  the  hand. 

From  youth  all  my  soul  has  been  rocked  with  emotions, 
Which  roll  like  a  troubled  sea  over  my  mind  ; 

And  strange  winds  have  whispered,  from  over  deep  oceans, 
Which  tell  me  of  Edens  I'm  longing  to  find. 

On  the  wings  of  these  winds,  a  sweet,  tender  spirit 
Has  spoken,  at  times,  a  sweet  peace  to  my  soul  ; 

I  longingly  listen,  all  prayerful,  to  hear  it  — 

'Tis  drowned  in  the  busy  world's  bustle  and  roll  ! 


198 


FOR  THOSE   WE 

MY    MOTHER. 

I  speak  of  one  who,  'neath  the  surrr 

Embodies  every  grace, 
And  every  virtue  plainly  is 

Depicted  in  her  face; 
To  whom  the  gods  have  given  form, 

Above  all  human  kind  ; 
A  jewel  rare,  beyond  compare  — 

The  setting  of  her  mind. 

Her  loving  smile  all  cares  beguile, 

And  fills  me  with  delight  ; 
With  her  my  days  are  pleasure's  own, 

And  peaceful  every  night; 
To  whom  the  gods  a  charm  hath  given, 

Bequeathed  unto  no  other  ; 
There  is  not — ne'er  can  be  again, 

An  equal  to  my  mother. 


FOR   THOSE   WE   LOVE. 

How  sweet  to  feel  we're  going  home: 
To  calmly  look  to  the  beyond, 

From  whence  our  sweetest  visions  come, 
And  lasting  treasures  may  be  found. 

Where  holy  triumphs  rest  secure, 
And  joys  and  pleasures  never  die; 

Where  dwelleth   naught  that  is  impure, 
In  love's  sweet  home,  beyond  the  sky. 

'Tis  not  for  self  —  oh  no,  not  so, 
But  for  the  souls  of  those  we  love; 

For  them,  dear  Lord,  oh,  let  us  grow 
Immortal  in  the  fields  above. 

Bestow  on  us  immortal  life, 
And  wipe  away  all  bitter  tears; 

Shut  out  all  fear  and  thought  of  strife, 
Let  shine  the  flood  of  golden  years. 


199 


LIFE. 

MY  HEART  is  STRANGELY  SAD  TO-NIGHT. 

My  heart  is  strangely  sad  to-night, 

I  would  not  hear  thee  sing  ; 
The  songs  which  once  were  my  delight, 

With  discords  harshly  ring. 

I  love  the  songs  of  other  days, 

Heard  at  my  mother's  knee  ; 
Would  walk  again  youth's  pleasant  ways  — 

Alone,  in  memory. 

Oh,  mother  !  come  again  to  me, 

And  soothe  my  wear}-  heart  ; 
I  still  am  but  a  child  to  thee, 

Whate'er  to  others  art. 

My  soul  cries  out  in  weariness, 

To  pillow  on  thy  breast  — 
To  calm  this  pain  and  deep  distress, 

And  with  thee  sweetly  rest. 

Weep  on,  tired  heart,  thy  sad  refrain, 

So  tremulous  and  low, 
vSwept  by  the  cruel  hand  of  pain, 

No  mortal  ear  may  know. 

Thy  grief,  thy  woe,  thy  bitter  tears, 

No  mortal  eye  may  see, 
But  He  will  bless  in  coming  years, 

Who  rules  eternity. 


LIFE. 

Life  is  a  wave  on  which  men  rise, 
To  seize  ambition's  tinsel  crown  ; 

All  other  pleasures  loathe,  despise, 

To  win  one  smile  from  fleeting  fame, 

Then  sink  beneath  death's  waters  down 
And  cease  to  live,  save  in  a  name. 


200 


FAITH  Kill,   TO   THE    END. 

BIRD    SONG. 

Sweetheart,  sweetheart,  sweetheart,  sweet,  sweet,  sweet, 

Caroled  forth  a  wild  bird,  gaily, 

As  it  flitted  here  and  there, 

Through  the  blithesome  Spring-time  daily, 

Where  the  trees  their  blossoms  wrear; 

Morning,  evening,  all  the  day, 

It  seemed  ever  thus  to  say: 
Sweetheart,  sweetheart,  sweetheart,  sweet,  sweet,  sweet. 

Sweetheart,  sweetheart,  sweetheart,  sweet,  sweet,  sweet, 

Filling  all  the  air  about  me. 

With  its  joyous  notes  of  song, 

'Til  each  motion  of  the  air-sea 

Seemed  to  roll  with  joy  along. 

Light  my  heart  and  bright  the  day, 

When  I  heard  the  sweet  bird  say: 
Sweetheart,  sweetheart,  sweetheart,  sweet,  swTeet,  sweet. 

Sweetheart,  sweetheart,  sweetheart,  sweet,  sweet,  sweet, 
The  words  kept  ringing  in  my  ears, 
And  they  filled  niy  heart  with  joy, 
'Til  moistened  were  my  eyes  with  tears, 
But  no  grief  did  them  alloy, 
For  I  wended  swift  my  way, 
To  my  love,  that  I  might  say: 

Sweetheart,  sweetheart,  sweetheart,  sweet,  sweet,  sweet. 


FAITHFUL   TO   THE   END. 

You've  come  again,  old  friend,  to  me, 

To  keep  the  vows  of  other  years; 
I've  kept  thy  love  safe  in  my  heart, 

Embalmed  in  sorrows  and  in  tears. 
True  love  can  never,  never  change, 

Though  sorrows,  troubles  be  its  fate, 
Now,  after  all  these  weary  years, 

To  think  your  coming  is  too  late. 


201 


COME    WITH   THY    HARP. 

Come,  dear,  and  fold  me  to  your  breast, 

And  take  this  feeble  hand  in  thine, 
And  let  me  hear  the  s\veet  old  voice, 

Say  that  you  truly  now  art  mine. 
Our  paths  through  life  have  lain  apart, 

And  now  life's  sun  is  sinking  low; 
Come,  press  me,  darling,  to  your  heart, 

And  kiss  me  once  before  I  go. 

There,  darling,  do  not  weep  for  me; 

The  weary  hours  have  almost  flown; 
And  this  sweet  meeting  now  with  thee, 

Heals  all  the  sorrows  I  have  known. 
Still  tread  the  path  of  life  alone, 

We've  just  a  few  more  years  to  wait; 
I'll  watch,  and  long,  and  pray  for  thee, 

And  keep  ajar  the  golden  gate. 

I've  watched  and  waited,  wept  and  prayed, 

That  you  would  quickly,  quickly  come, 
Through  all  these  lonely,  weary  years; 

But  now  I  pray:  "God's  will  be  done." 
I  dreamed  that  we  would  happy  be, 

And  was  content  to  watch  and  wait; 
But  dreams  alone,  alas!  they'll  be, 

For  now  your  coming  is  too  late. 

Farewell,  for  I  must  leave  you  now; 

I  hear  the  angels'  welcome  call; 
Come  closer,  for  my  sight  grows  dim, 

The  dews  of  death  upon  me  fall. 
Good-bye,  old  love,  a  last  good-bye, 

I'm  going  from  this  world  of  pain; 
I'll  watch,  and  wait,  and  pray  for  thee, 

Till  we  in  heaven  meet  again. 


COME  WITH  THY  HARP. 

Come  with  thy  harp  at  evening's  hour, 

When  hungry  grows  the  heart  for  love, 
And  let  me  feel  its  melting  pow'r, 
My  soul  to  soothe. 


202 


MY    FRIEND. 


When  care  and  strife  die  on  the  air, 

And  passing  moments  breathe  of  peace, 
Oh,  let  me  feel  thy  presence  there, 
That  doubts  may  cease. 

Let  thy  hand  softly  touch  the  strings, 

That  waken  fondest  dreams  of  mine, 
And  by  low  pleading  always  brings 
My  soul  to  thine. 

The  evening  zephyr's  softest  tone, 

Faintly  perfumed  by  breath  of  flowers, 
Is  fitting  messenger,  my  own, 
For  love  like  ours. 


MY    FRIEND. 

Words  compass  not  a  richer  thought 

Than  this:  He  is  my  friend; 
One  who  stands  firm  and  true,  unbought, 

Steadfast  unto  the  end; 
Who  speaks  a  word  of  kindness,  when 

The  world  in  anger  frowns; 
For  him  my  heart  in  fealty  then, 

With  all  its  being  crowns. 

No  gift  to  mortal  man  is  given, 

So  sweet,  so  rich  as  this; 
It  rivals  e'en  the  hope  of  Heaven, 

WTith  all  its  wondrous  bliss, 
To  fully  trust,  to  feel  and  know, 

Unto  the  bitter  end, 
Whate'er  may  happen  here  below, 

He  is  my  steadfast  friend. 

To  feel  and  know  his  strong  right  arm 

Is  bared  in  my  defense, 
To  shield  and  guard  from  every  harm, 

Whate'er  the  consequence, 
Fills  full  my  cup,  unto  the  brim, 

With  joys  that  sweetly  blend, 
And  makes  myself,  second  to  him, 

Who  truly  is  my  friend. 


203 


MY     MOTHER'S    DEATH. 

"  So  tired,  let  me  rest,"  mother  sighed,  as  she  wearily 

Moaned  in  her  weakness  and  closed  her  dear  eyes, 
That  had  for  a  moment  looked  outward  so  drearily, 

Over  the  meadows,  and  up  to  the  skies: 
The  soft,  azure  skies,  where  fleecy  clouds  drifted, 

As  idly,  dreamily  onward  they  rolled, 
While  bright,  mellow  sunbeams  lazily  sifted 

Through  them,  to  the  earth,  a  shimmer  of  gold. 
Then  Silence  laid  heavily  on  us  his  finger, 

And  grief  filled  our  bosoms  at  thought  of  the  pall, 
And  the  death  angel's  visit,  who  let  her  still  linger, 

A  short  measure  with  us,  ere  making  his  call. 

He  delayed  but  a  moment:  so  soft  was  his  coming, 

We  thought  that  dear  mother  but  quietly  slept, 
While  nothing  we  heard,  save  the  honey-bees'  humming, 

As  through  the  open  window  their  low  voices  crept. 
Then  o'er  her  wan  features  death's  presence  came  creeping; 

We  pressed  down  her  eyelids,  and  folded  her  hands; 
Then  low  words  were  spoken  to    comfort  the  weeping, 

And  tell  of  her  welcome  in  heavenly  lands. 
We  robed  her  loved  form  with  the  sepulcher's  dressing, 

And  lowered  her  so  lovingly  down  by  the  side, 
Of  him  whom  her  heart,  while  he  lived,  was  confessing 

The  love  of  her  life,  which  bloomed  on  till  she  died. 

They  rest  on  a  wave,  which  arose  from  the  ocean, 

And  beat  back  the  waters  to  river  and  sea: 
An  emerald  wave  of  the  prairie,  whose  motion, 

Has  slumbered  since,  fanned  by  the  glad  winds  so  free. 
The  last  golden  rays  of  the  day-beams,  when  dying, 

Kissed  gently  their  graves  w7ith  soft  light  as  they  fell, 
And  again  to  the  world  we  turned  with  deep  sighing, 

As  sadly  we  bade  them  a  loving  farewell. 
There  in  peace  let  them  rest,  heart  to  heart,  dust  to  dust, 

Until  the  Lord's  coming  in  glory  again: 
For  He  was  their  shepherd,  their  hope,  and  their  trust  — 

The  Saviour,  to  them,  of  the  children  of  men. 


204 


THE    EVENING   OF  LIFE. 

THE   STATUE   TO   PYGMALEON. 

Gaze  on,  oh  soul  of  love,  gaze  on, 

Speak  with  thy  fervent  glance,  and  give 

This  marble  form,  this  heart  of  stone, 

The  strength  and  power  to  move  and  live. 

Beneath  that  gaze  I  live,  I  see, 
Thou  my  creator  and  my  friend; 

IvOve  boundless  as  eternity, 
Thy  every  glance  and  movement  blend. 

By  love's  divine,  empowering  glow, 
This  marble  form  with  life  is  thrilled; 

I  feel  the  rich  blood's  quickening  flow, 
With  throbbing  life  my  bosom  filled. 

Love  is  of  life  the  only  worth, 

It  is  my  heart,  my  soul,  my  breath, 

The  quickening  power  which  gave  me  birth; 
Be  it  withdrawn,  I  sleep  in  death. 


THE   EVENING  OF  LIFE. 

The  snows  of  the  Winter  of  life,  old  man, 

Have  fallen  upon  your  hair, 
And  the  breath  of  Summer's  soft,  wooing  winds, 

Comes  not  to  disturb  them  there. 
Your  step  has  grown  feeble,  and  bowed  your  form 

Now  trembles  your  palsied  hand; 
But  a  few  short  years  since  you  stood  erect, 

The  stalwart  of  all  the  land! 

But  the  hours  of  the  gloaming  of  life,  old  man, 

For  you  have  come  gently  on; 
Is  the  evening  of  life  to  you,  old  man, 

As  sweet  as  its  early  dawn? 
Is  the  golden  light  of  life's  setting  sun 

As  bright  as  its  morning  ray? 
Are  the  hours  of  closing  as  dear,  old  man, 

As  those  in  the  heat  of  day? 


205 


CUPIDS    BLOSSOMS. 

Has  the  western  slope  of  the  hill,  old  man, 

For  you  a  September  sky? 
Has  life's  setting  sun  a  soft,  mellow  light, 

As  the  night  of  death  draws  nigh? 
Does  your  path  grow  smooth,  as  it  nears  the  shore, 

The  shore  of  the  mystic  sea? 
Do  its  billowy  waves  an  anthem  sing  — 

The  waves  of  eternity? 

For  your  soul,  thank  God,  your  great  soul,  old  man, 

Beams  forth  from  your  clear,  blue  eye, 
With  a  power  which  tells  of  the  light  in  man 

That  never  was  born  to  die, 
And  your  face  is  lit  with  a  beaming  smile, 

Well  knowing  your  work  is  done; 
That  the  pains,  and  sorrows,  and  trials  of  life 

Shall  cease  with  its  setting  sun? 

Does  your  star  of  hope  now  more  brightly  shine, 

Dispelling  the  gloom  of  the  grave? 
Are  the  waters  of  death  now  clear  to  you, 

Silver  crested  every  wave? 
Rejoice!  your  journey  is  over,  old  man, 

Pass  to  the  shores  of  the  blest; 
Thou  hast  fought  the  battle  of  life,  old  man, 

Enter  thou  into  thy  rest. 


CUPID'S   BLOSSOMS. 

I've  seen  thee  oft  when  roses  wreathed 
About  thy  features,  garlands  bright  ; 

When  thy  fair  bosom  fondly  breathed 
In  ecstasy  of  pure  delight. 

When  thy  brown  eyes  with  pleasure  shone 
Your  lips  were  red  with  passion's  glow, 

And  knew  thy  heart  was  all  my  own, 
When  love  was  one  unbroken  flow. 


206 


WHEN    I    AM    OLD. 

When  shadows  came  not  to  annoy 
Our  perfect  harmony  of  bliss  ; 

When  every  pulse  was  one  of  joy, 
Making  our  life  all  loveliness. 

Since  then  I've  seen  the  roses  fade, 
And  in  their  place  pale  lilies  lay  ; 

Oh,  shame  !  to  think  fair,  lovely  maid, 
That  I  had  chased  their  bloom  away. 

Oh,  dearest  maid,  I  do  confess, 

I  have  those  roses  falsely  slain  ; 

But,  darling,  come  and  let  me  kiss 

Those  blooms  of  Cupid  back  again  ! 


WHEN   I   AM   OLD. 

Oh,  love  and  song,  I  pray  thee  stay 

And  bless  my  later  years; 
Pass  not,  I  pray,  with  youth  away, 

And  leave  but  sorrow's  tears; 
Let  not  my  heart  grow  chill  and  cold, 

When  I  am  old. 

When  I  am  old  I'll  need  thee  more, 
For  when  the  shadows  call, 

And  I  have  numbered  my  three  score, 
And  leaves  of  Autumn  fall  — 

Do  thou  my  heart  and  life  enfold. 
When  I  am  old. 

When  I  am  old,  how  soon  'twill  be! 

The  years  fly  swiftly  past, 
And  drop  into  eternity  — 

This  one  may  be  my  last ! 
May  pleasures  e'er  their  sweets  unfold 

To  all  the  old. 


207 


LITTLE   CUPID. 

Toy  with  his  golden  hair; 

Kiss  him  again, 
On  his  pure  brow  so  fair, 
On  his  sweet  eyelids  there, 

Shower  them  like  rain. 

Let  his  sweet  laughter  ring, 

Let  his  bright  eyes 
Their  piercing  arrows  fling, 
And  to  our  hearts  still  bring 
Soft  Summer  skies. 


208 


DUALITY. 

OH     LET    ME     DREAM. 

Welcome,  welcome,  beautiful  night! 
With  mantle  of  gloom  and  golden  stars, 
And  gentle  moon,  whose  mellow  light, 
Glistens  and  gleams  in  silver  bars. 
Now  let  me  sleep;  oh,  let  me  dream, 

Under  the  stars  — 

Bright,  lovely  stars, 

Venus  and  Mars, 

Sweet,  beaming  stars, 
As  they  now  shine,  and  sparkling  gleam, 

Oh,  let  me  dream 

Of  love — sweet  love, 

Love  from  above, 

Oh,  let  me  dream 
Of  love. 

Oh,  Morpheus!   thine  arms  entwine, 
And  fold  me  lightly  to  thy  breast, 
And  let  me  dream  of  love  divine, 
Through  all  my  hours  of  quiet  rest. 
Oh,  let  me  sleep;  oh,  let  me  dream, 

Under  the  stars  — 

Bright,  lovely  stars, 

Venus  and  Mars, 

Sweet,  beaming  stars, 
As  they  now  shine,  and  sparkling  gleam, 

Oh,  let  me  dream 

Of  love — sweet  love, 

Love  from  above, 

Oh,  let  me  dream 
Of  love. 


DUALITY. 

The  bush  which  boasts  the  fairest  rose, 
Likewise  doth  yield  the  sharpest  thorn; 

The  lips  which  honeyed  sweetness  knows, 
Are  often  curled  in  bitter  scorn. 


209 


LOVE'S    LONGING. 

Oh,  loved  one,  do  you  know  how  I  long 
To  meet  you,  and  clasp  you,  my  own, 

And  feel  the  sweet  thrill  of  joy, 

To  none  but  the  true  lover  known? 

To  fold  you  again  to  my  breast, 

To  kiss  those  dear  lips  as  of  yore, 

And  hear  them  lisp  the  sweet  words: 
"I  am  thine,  only  thine,  evermore!" 

Oh,  darling,  'tis  so  hard  to  wait  — 

To  wait  without  knowing  how  long 
'Twill  be,  ere  the  morning  light  breaks, 

And  life  be  one  sweet,  endless  song; 
A  round  of  the  dearest  of  joys, 

Bach  moment  be  laden  with  bliss, 
Each  hour  be  to  trouble  unknown, 

Each  day  open  and  close  with  a  kiss. 

When  clouds,  which  hang  over  our  sky, 

Shall  roll  far  away  to  the  West, 
And  we,  in  the  full  joy  of  love, 

Shall  richly  and  sweetly  be  blessed; 
When  this  dull,  endless  aching  shall  cease, 

And  our  hearts  throb  with  great  beats  of  joy, 
And  our  lives  shall  in  every  part, 

Know  naught  of  regret  or  alloy. 

Oh,  love,  'twould  be  heaven  below, 

To  ever  have  you  at  my  side; 
To  call  you  and  kiss  you,  my  own, 

My  angel,  my  darling,  my  bride. 
Oh,  haste  thee,  oh,  haste,  Father  Time, 

Thy  chariot  wheels  move  so  slow; 
Oh,  haste  thee,  and  bring  us  the  hour, 

When  this  joy  we  fully  may  know. 


210 


WHO    CAME    TO    ME    IN    MY    DREAM. 

PLUCK  THE  ROSES  ERE  THEY  DIE. 

Pluck  the  roses,  lovely  roses, 

While  they're  blooming  fresh  and  fair; 
While  their  sweet  life  still  discloses 

A  wealth  of  fragrance  on  the  air. 

Take  the  gifts  which  God  has  given, 
Each  one  in  season  as  they  come; 

They  will  make  this  earth  a  heaven, 
A  peaceful,  sweet  and  happy  home. 

All  the  world  is  filled  with  beauty, 
By  God  prepared  to  charm  the  eye; 

'Tis  of  life  a  pleasant  duty  — 
Pass  not  a  thing  of  beauty  by. 

Drink  at  every  crystal  fountain  — 
The  wine  of  life  flows  freely  now; 

I/et  each  breeze  from  sea  and  mountain 
With  kisses  cool  thy  fevered  brow. 


WHO  CAME   TO   ME   IN   MY  DREAM. 

Who  came  to  me  in  my  dream? 
It  was  she;  it  was  she, 
Who  alone  holds  the  key. 
Of  my  heart's  door  for  me  — 
She  came  to  me  in  my  dream. 

Who  came  to  me  in  my  dream? 
'Twas  a  heavenly  visitant, 
By  the  angels'  sweet  consent, 
One  of  their  own  element  — 
She  came  to  me  in  my  dream. 

Who  came  to  me  in  my  dream? 
She,  the  one  of  all  the  earth  — 
She,  the  one  of  beauty's  birth, 
She,  the  one  of  matchless  worth  — 
She  came  to  me  in  my  dream. 


211 


MY  WVTE. 

LOVE'S  GOLDEN  HOURS. 

Come,  let  us  watch  the  golden  day, 

You,  dearest  love,  and  I; 
Behold  the  last  smile  fade  away 

Upon  the  azure  sky. 

And  listen  to  the  evening  wind, 

Sighing  so  soft  and  low, 
For  the  sweet  moments  left  behind  — 

That  they  so  swiftly  go. 

Come,  let  us  cull  from  those  that  pass, 
The  sweets  they  have  in  store, 

For  when  they're  gone,  no  power,  alas! 
Their  blessings  can  restore. 

These  are  the  golden  hours  of  love, 
When  heart  speaks  unto  heart; 

When  lustrous  stars  from  heaven  above, 
Their  trembling  glance  impart, 

To  light  the  world  with  ray  serene, 
WThen  all  is  kind  and  still, 

And  o'er  the  sweet  and  peaceful  scene, 
Throw  powers  that  chain  the  will. 


MY    LOVE. 

Beloved  !  when  sorrows  shroud  my  troubled  soul, 

And  life  seems  one  great  gulf  of  deep  despair  ; 
When  clouds  of  storm  upon  me  fiercely  roll, 

And  livid  lightenings  rend  the  humid  air, 
And  I  can  hear  the  nearer  breakers  roar, 

As  eager  to  devour  their  helpless  prey, 
I,  fainting,  drop  the  helm  and  oar, 

As  glimmering  fades  hope's  sympathizing  ray. 
A  radiant  vision  then  dispels  the  gloom, 

And  through  the  clouds  angelic  loveliness  — 
Thy  form  —  more  fair  than  Hope's  most  radiant  bloom, 

Appears,  my  drooping  soul  to  cheer  and  bless. 


WHY   CHIDK    ME  ? 

FIRST    HOURS    OF    LOVE. 

Oh,  let  me  live  them  o'er  again! 

The  hours  when  first  I  loved; 
When  first  enchanting  through  my  brain, 
Enraptured  passion's  lovely  train, 

Bewilderingly  moved! 

Oh,  rapturous  joy!  oh,  love  divine! 

In  virgin  purity, 

Again  through  all  my  being  shine, 
My  soul  in  her's  again  entwine, 

In  sweet  security! 

Oh,  could  I  feel  as  then  I  felt, 

My  life,  my  soul  I'd  give, 
To  have  all  troubling  dross  to  melt, 
Before  sweet  love  as  then  it  dwelt, 

Ah,  then  'twas  sweet  to  live! 

Alas!  to  me  they'll  never  come; 

They  are  forever  fled ; 
Search  where  I  will,  where'er  I  roam, 
Their  flitting  shadows  in  the  gloam, 

Remind  me  they  are  dead! 

Ghosts  of  a  joy,  of  moments  dead, 

Which  never  from  me  rove; 
Though  they  be  now  forever  fled, 
By  mem'ry  still  my  soul  is  wed 

To  thoughts  of  early  love. 


WHY   CHIDE    ME? 

Ye  chide  me  that  I  love  no  more 
And  answer  not  your  sigh  with  sighs, 
And  feel  no  more  your  loving  power  ? 
Remember,  love,  the  sweetest  flower 
Once  blooms,  then  dies. 

213 


AS    FIRST   I    SAW   THEE. 

I    LOVE    THEE   STILL. 

Oh,  darling  !  could  I  voice  my  sorrow, 

Or  speak  the  thoughts  my  bosom  fill  ; 

Thou  sure  would'st  know,  ere  gleams  the  morrow, 
That  with  my  soul  —  I  love  thee  still. 

Since  first  thy  kindly  glance  beholding, 

Love's  stream  has  flown,  a  sparkling  rill  ; 

My  every  thought  thy  life  enfolding, 

Oh,  locks  of  jet  !—  I  love  thee  still. 

Why  should  love's  sea,  with  gentle  heaving, 
Now  with  rough  waves  thy  bosom  fill  ? 

Oh,  love  !  I  faint,  I  die  with  grieving  ; 

God  knows  my  heart  —  I  love  thee  still. 

Oh,  look  not,  love,  with  cold  disdaining 

Upon  me;   for  I  have  no  will, 
Save  that  of  my  lost  heaven  regaining, 

When  thou  shalt  say  :  —  "I  love  thee  still  !" 


AS    FIRST  I   SAW   THEE. 

As  first  I  saw  thee,  darling  one, 

I  see  thee  still  to-night! 
Of  all  that  group  'tis  thee  alone, 

That  dwells  still  in  my  sight. 
All  else  has  faded  from  my  skies, 

By  memory  forgot: 
Passed  from  the  vision  of  my  eyes, 

And  is  as  though  'twere  not. 

It  may  be  that  thy  loving  smile, 

And  glance  of  thy  bright  eye, 
Hast  so  engrossed  my  thoughts,  erstwhile, 

All  else  did'st  fade  and  die. 
Howe'er  it  be,  this  much,  I  know, 

Undoubtedly  is  true: 
Where'er  I  be,  where'er  I  go, 

I  see — I  love  but  you. 


214 


IM MORTAL,   I.OVE, 

OH    SLUMBER,    MY  DARLING. 

Oh  slumber,  my  darling  !  oh,  slumber  away 
The  sweet  hours  of  rest,  until  soft  morning  gray 

Shall  with  sun-kisses  wake  thee, 

From  sweet  dreams  of  thy  love 

To  the  blessed  reality, 

Which  shall  far  sweeter  prove. 

Oh,  talk   not  of  dreams  to  those  who  have  loved, 
A  far  sweeter  passion  hath  their  hearts  moved  ! 

Sweeter  joys,  brighter  gleams 

O'er  their  pathway  doth  fall, 

Than  lies  in  the  power  of  dreams, 

E'en  of  love,  to  recall. 


IMMORTAL   LOVE. 

There  is  an  end  to  flowers  and  birds, 
To  grazing  flocks  and  lowing  herds; 
An  end  to  all  things  'neath  the  skies, 
To  rosy  lips  and  sparkling  eyes; 
And  end  to  laughter  and  to  mirth, 
To  all,  save  one  sweet  thing  on  earth, 
There  is  an  end. 

There  is  an  end  to  night  and  day, 
All  things  of  earth  shall  pass  away, 
But  there  is  one  thing  'neath  the  sky, 
That,  surely,  was  not  born  to  die. 
No  change  can  harm  its  fervent  breath; 
It  liveth  on  till  after  death  — 
It  can  not  die. 

It  lives  beyond  the  silent  grave, 
Where  orange  fair  and  palm  trees  wave 
'Tis  sung  by  heaven's  angelic  choir  — 
The  echoing  notes  of  sacred  lyre 
Come  floating  down  in  dreams  to  me, 
And  whisper:   "Through  eternity, 
It  shall  ever  be." 


215 


RUTH. 

Dear  form — sweet  face  —  bright  hair, 

My  love  for  thee  is  one 
Sweet,  fervent  breath  of  prayer, 

Ne'er  ending  since  begun. 

Begun  as  soon  as  sight, 

From  those  dear  eyes  to  mine, 
Shot  glances  of  delight, 

Wedding  my  soul  to  thine. 

By  laws  as  fixed  at  birth, 

As  pleasure  or  of  pain, 
Or  any  of  the  earth  — 

Thy  soul  doth  mine  contain. 

As  flowers  to  the  sun, 

As  rivers  to  the  sea, 
As  Time  flows  ever  on, 

My  soul  doth  turn  to  thee. 

My  sorrows,  tears  and  grief 

Vanish  before  thy  face, 
And  perfect,  sweet  relief 

Sits  smiling  in  their  place. 

When  thou  art  gone,  the  sun 
Shines  dimly  on  my  path, 

And  all  the  fleecy  clouds 

Seem  turned  to  frowns  of  wrath. 

The  birds  sing  not  so  sweet, 
And  weary  is  their  song; 

Their  notes  do  harshly  greet 

Mine  ears,  and  seem  too  long. 

'Tis  strange,  but  yesterday, 

W7hen  thou  wert  here,  their  notes 
Seemed  streams  of  melody, 

Pouring  from  silver  throats. 

The  sunlight's  golden  gleam, 
The  fleecy  cloudlets'  sail, 

Were  shimmering,  pulsing  stream, 
And  lovely  bridal  veil. 

216 


THE    LOVER'S   LAMENT. 

Morn,  noon  and  night  I  raise 
My  soul  to  God  in  prayer, 

And  thankfulness  and  praise, 
And  plead  his  tender  care, 

To  guard  thy  precious  head 

From  every  source  of  harm, 

And  o'er  thy  slumbering  bed 
To  stretch  His  mighty  arm. 

Ivove  lives  beyond  the  tomb; 

In  heaven,  pure  and  free, 
Its  sweet  flowers  ever  bloom, 

In  immortality. 


THE   LOVER'S   LAMENT. 

How  sad  my  heart,  for  thou  art  gone, 

While  evening  shadows  round  me  fall, 

And  find  me  silent  and  alone, 
As  I  the  loving  past  recall. 

How  yearns  my  heart  to  call  thee  back, 
To  nestle  in  these  arms  again! 

Oh,  haste,  retrace  the  foamy  track  — 
Recross  the  dark  and  raging  main! 

The  sky  is  set  with  glinting  stars, 
But  not  one  ray  is  shed  for  me; 

My  sorrow  all  their  light  debars, 

My  star  of  hope  sank  in  the  sea. 

The  raging  billows  clasped  her  where 

No  mortal  hand  could  close  her  eyes; 

Her  helpless  cry  of  wild  despair 

Was  echoed  by  the  sea-birds'  cries. 

The  wild  waves  clasped  her  to  their  breast, 
And  wound  about  her  form  so  fair, 

And  gently  down  her  eyelids  pressed; 
Toyed  as  a  lover  with  her  hair. 

And  kissed  her  lips,  as  lovers  kiss— - 
Ah,  madly!  till  her  fragrant  breath 

Was  given  up  in  answering  bliss, 

And  her  sweet  form  lay  cold  in  death. 

217 


WHAT   THE    BIRD    SAID. 


IN  MEMORY  OF  HON.  JOHN  B.  FINCH. 

Lo!  he  is  dead; 
This  brilliant  leader  of  our  cause; 

This  brave  defender  of  the  right; 
This  advocate  of  purer  laws, 

Who  charmed  and  filled  us  with  delight: 
Can  he  be  dead  ? 

Ah,  who  could  know 
That  he  we  loved  and  cherished  so 

Would,  in  the  brightest  hour  of  life, 
With  intellect  and  soul  aglow, 
Amid  the  conflict  and  the  strife 
Be  stricken  low  ? 

We  stand  aghast, 
To  think  his  life  is  o'er  and  past, 

While  yet  his  sun  was  at  its  noon; 
It's  brightest  rays  should  be  its  last, 

And  midnight's  chill  and  silent  gloom 
O'er  him  be  cast. 

Illustrious  dead, 

Sleep  well;  of  thee  'twill  e'er  be  said, 
"He  did  what  mortal  man  could  do 
Mankind  with  truth  to  firmly  wed, 
Their  souls  with  honor  to  imbue, 
In  error's  stead." 


WHAT  THE  BIRD  SAID. 

A  wild  bird  said  unto  its  mate  : 
Sweetheart  so  pretty,  sweet,  sweet,  sweet. 
I'll  sin<g  for  thee  early  and  late, 
Repeating  ever  sweet,  sweet,  sweet. 


218 


A   RARE    FLOWER. 

UNFORGIVEN. 

At  morning,  at  evening,  at  midnight, 
Each  hour  of  the  days  passing  by, 
I  longingly  wait  for  your  coming, 
But  nothing  I  hear  save  the  sigh 
Which  comes  from  the  depths  of  my  bosom 
Of  hope  and  of  joy,  a  deep  moan, 
Which  tells  of  their  absence  forever  — 
Thy  spirit  hath  flown! 

I  call  to  you,  love,  in  my  sorrow, 
And  plead  with  the  strength  of  my  soul, 
That  you  will  forgive  me,  my  darling, 
And  stay  these  great  billows,  that  roll; 
That  blind  me,  and  crush  me,  my  darling, 
And  leave  me  all  wretched  and  prone; 
Like  fire  flames  of  Hell  about  me, 
They  mock  at  my  moan. 

Your  likeness  I  see  e'er  before  me: 
Those  full  cherry  lips  and  brown  eyes, 
They  ever  have  smiled  me  a  welcome; 
This  Heaven,  dark  fate,  now  denies. 
I  see  in  their  look  <lUnforgiven," 
Which  wrings  from  my  soul  a  deep  groan; 
Thus  shut  from  the  light  of  my  Heaven, 
I'm  dying  alone. 

Oh,  darling!  come  quick,  or  I  perish! 
Come,  quick,  and  relieve  this  poor  heart; 
But  speak  to  me,  darling,  and  save  me; 
Oh,  bid  this  great  sorrow  depart! 
God  knows  I  had  loved  you  unceasing, 
Since  first  thy  loved  face  I  have  known; 
Have  worshiped  and  prayed,  oh,  believe  me, 
For  thee,  love,  alone. 


A   RARE    FLOWER. 

Love  is  a  blossom  seldom  seen, 
No  orchid  half  so  pure  and  rare; 
While  Passion's  flowers  bestrew  the  green 
And  cast  their  odors  everywhere. 


219 


MEMORY    IS    MINE. 

DEATH   SHADOWS. 

Come  closer,  darling;  hold  fast  my  hand, 
For  night  comes  on,  though  the  morning  sun 
His  triumphal  march  has  just  begun, 
And  with  dazzling  light  fills  all  the  land. 

Death  kisses  my  brow; 

Let  your  sweet  presence  comfort  me  now. 

Lay  close  to  mine  your  beautiful  cheek; 
Kiss  me  tenderly;  let  your  dear  eyes 
Tell  of  the  love  that  within  them  lies; 
Let  soul  to  soul  in  confidence  speak; 

For  I  hear  the  roar 

Of  Death's  dark  waters  laving  the  shore. 

Smooth  down  my  pillow  with  gentle  touch; 

Pray  I  may  be  as  a  little  child, 

As  trusting  and  pure  and  undefiled; 

For  the  Father  hath  spoken  of  such 

His  chosen  shall  be 

With  Him  to  dwell  through  eternity. 


MEMORY    IS    MINE. 

Love,  sweet  Love,  oh  let  me  woo  thee, 
Though  it  may  be  all  in  vain; 

Still,  oh  still  let  me  pursue  thee, 

Though  we  may  not  speak  again. 

Give  me  one  last  smile  to  brighten 

My  lone  path  through  future  years; 

Give  it,  Love,  my  load  to  lighten, 
And  to  dry  my  bitter  tears. 

Go,  and  may  God  bless  thee  ever 
With  His  richest  gifts  divine; 

Though  we  bid  farewell  forever, 
Still  sweet  Memory  is  mine! 

By  it,  on  my  heart,  your  loving 

Face  is  painted  clear  and  bright; 

Every  line,  so  true,  thus  proving 

How  precious  thou  art  in  my  sight. 


LOVELY    FAIRY   ISABEL. 

TO   A   LOVELY   MAID. 

Warm  rosy  lips,  with  love-kisses  laden, 

Sweeter  than  nectar  distilled  from  the  rose, 

Dearer  to  me  than  all  of  life's  splendors, 
The  world  to  my  heart,  beside,  can  disclose. 

Blue  eyes  so  bright,  with  love  glances  tender, 
Piercing  my  bosom  and  thrilling  my  soul; 

Causing  pure  waves  of  heavenly  pleasure, 
Over  my  being  in  sweetness  to  roll. 

Give  me  thy  love,  oh,  sweet  maid  of  beauty: 
I  care  not,  on  earth,  what  then  may  betide; 

'Tis  now  my  highest  and  only  ambition, 

To  kiss  you  and  call  you  my  own  darling  bride. 


LOVELY  FAIRY   ISABEL. 

Lovely  fairy  Isabel, 
What  thou  art  I  cannot  tell. 
Seemingly  thou  art  divine, 
For  all  graces  in  thee  shine; 
For  a  moment  with  thy  smile, 
All  my  cares  thou  dost  beguile. 
Can  I  trust  thee,  Isabel? 
Can  I  trust  thee;  who  can  tell? 

Meanest  what  that  dreamy  look? 
All  my  soul  its  glances  shook; 
Meanest  what  that  smile  of  thine? 
Pray  oblige  me  and  define, 
For  in  thy  bewitching  eyes, 
Riddles  lie  I  cannot  read; 
Love  is  dull,  and  blind,  unwise, 
Will  not  give  to  wisdom  heed; 
Yet  I'll  trust  thee,  Isabel, 
I  will  trust  thee;  doubt,  farewell! 


221 


GEMS. 

THE    LOVER'S    DESPAIR. 

Oh,  locks  of  jet!  oh,  soulful  eyes! 

Oh,  lips  of  love!  oh,  form  divine! 
My  hope,  my  all,  my  paradise! 

Thy  presence  thrills  me  like  rich  wine. 

Why  has  the  Winter  of  Despair 

Fallen  upon  our  Summer  scene? 

Why  livid  lightnings  rend  the  air 

And  wither  all  that's  fresh  and  green  ? 

Each  flower  lies  broken  in  its  bloom; 

Each  joy  seems  blasted  at  its  morn; 
Each  path  around  leads  to  the  tomb; 

Each  sound  a  curse  that  I  was  born. 

And  pallid  grief  forever  weeps 

Her  scalding  tears,  with  sob  and  sigh, 
And  Terror,  like  a  dragon,  creeps 

With  hideous  form  before  my  eye! 

Ah,  there  the  horrid  vision  comes  ! 

Gods!  take  the  damned  curse  away! 
It  chills  my  soul!  my  heart  benumbs, 

And  turns  to  hell  Life's  golden  day! 

Oh!  I  was  once  so  free  from  care, 
My  life  a  pure,  unsullied  page, 

And  sweetest  joys  bloomed  everywhere, 

Ere  Sorrow's  pangs  had  brought  me  age. 


GEMS. 

Language  is  but  the  clasp  that  holds 
The  gems  of  thought  alone; 

The  plainest  setting  e'er  unfolds 
The  best  light  of  the  stone. 

222 


CAROLINE. 

MY    BRIDE. 

Eyes  in  whose  light  love's  gentle  glow 

Shines  with  a  fondness,  soft  and  pure, 
Expressing  all  the  heart  may  know, 

When  knowing  all  it  may  endure. 
Such  eyes  are  her's:    clear  windows  they, 

Through  which  her  soul  speaks  all  divine; 
No  lurking  shadows  they  betray, 

But  speak  out  frankly  unto  mine. 

Lips  rich  as  rosebuds  in  first  bloom, 

Half  parted  in  expectancy; 
For  loving  kisses  —  waiting  room 

For  words  of  greeting,  unto  me. 
Such  lips  are  hers:    the  ruby  wine, 

Which  blushing  in  the  grape  we  see, 
Till  plucked  from  the  ambrosial  vine, 

So  waits  her  sweetness  all  for  me. 

A  form  beyond  the  skill  to  mould, 

Of  all  the  sculptors  in  the  land; 
Her  hair  a  softened  sheen  of  gold, 

A  study  for  the  gods  her  hand. 
Her  joyous  laughter  music  makes, 

Like  mountain  brooks,  when  in  their  glee, 
Their  foaming  waters,  sweetly  wakes 

To  cadence  of  pure  minstrelsy. 


CAROLINE. 
My  love  is  all  for  thee, 

Caroline; 

Thou  art  all  things  to  me  — 
A  calm  and  placid  sea, 
Where  soft  winds  lovingly 
Breathe  sweetest  melody, 

All  divine. 

A  rich  gift  from  heavenly  powers, 

Caroline; 

A  fresh  breath  of  blooming  flowers, 
And  s\veet,  pleasant  Summer  hours, 
Which  my  thirsty  soul  devours 

Like  rich  wine. 

223 


MARY    DEAN'S   FIRST   KISS. 

We  sat  upon  the  sofa,  Mary  Dean 
And  I,  who  was  her  lover,  she  my  queen; 
I  looked  upon  her  fondly,  and  her  eyes 
Sent  back  to  mine  a  wealth  of  love  replies; 
No  words  were  spoken  as  I  stroked  her  fair, 
Soft,  wavy  hair. 

The  touch  did  thrill  unto  my  very  soul, 
As  waves  of  sweet  affection  o'er  me  stole; 
Her  brow,  her  eyes,  her  soft,  rose-tinted  lips, 
All  other  forms  of  beauty  did  eclipse, 
Crowning  her  wealth  of  beauty  rare  — 
Her  auburn  hair. 

Eternity  may  hold  sweet  things  in  store, 
But  to  my  life  there  cometh  never  more 
A  joy  so  perfect  in  its  bliss  as  this 
Which  thrilled  my  soul  at  Mary  Dean's  first  kiss; 
As  in  the  gloaming  hours  in  silence  there, 
I  stroked  her  hair. 


224 


HELENE. 

I  will  cull  for  thee  a  bouquet,  Helene, 

To  lay  on  thy  wanton  breast; 
It  fitted  shall  be,  with  its  crimson  stain, 

To  deck  such  a  viper's  nest. 

I  will  pluck  it  with  utmost  care,  Helene, 

Each  part  shall  be  all  complete, 
And  it  shall  a  likeness  to  thee  contain  — 

Full  rounded  as  thy  deceit. 

Some  sprigs  of  thistle  and  thorn,  Helene, 

A  twig  of  the  poison  oak, 
Entwined  with  the  ivy  —  a  brilliant  vein, 

All  fit  for  thy  hands  to  stroke. 

All  fitted  for  thee  to  caress,  Helene, 

To  receive  thy  slimy  kiss, 
Though  a  viler  poison  to  heart  and  brain, 

Will  breed  from  thy  loathsomeness. 

Polluting  and  foul  to  the  touch,  Helene, 

More  bitter  than  words  can  tell; 
Its  odors  all  reeking  with  pungent  pain 

And  vile  as  the  fumes  of  hell. 

The  asp  and  the  adder  shall  find,  Helene, 

A  cover  in  every  leaf; 
The  breath  of  the  upas  tree's  deadly  bane 

Shall  quicken  each  fang  for  grief. 

Regret  and  Remorse,  like  bloodhounds,  Helene, 

Shall  follow  thy  guilty  soul; 
The  scent  shall  grow  warmer,  though  tears  like  rain 

Should  over  thy  footprints  roll. 

When  thy  soul  in  terror  shall  flee,  Helene, 

From  the  body  it  doth  degrade, 
Though  pregnant  with  curses  of  deepest  pain, 

'Twill  fall  to  a  blacker  shade. 


225 


JANE. 

The  breath  of  Regret  and  Remorse,  Helene, 

Will  Memory  fan  to  flame, 
Till  thy  shameless  soul  be  driven  insane 

At  sound  of  thy  guilty  name! 

To-morrow's  page  is  unwritten,  Helene, 
Unmarked  by  the  steps  of  Time; 

It  may  a  record  of  honor  retain 
Unsoiled  by  an  act  of  crime. 

Thy  delicate  hands  to-morrow,  Helene, 
May  feel  not  the  prick  of  thorn; 

Thy  life  may  begin  its  hope  to  regain 
With  flush  of  the  early  morn. 

Thou  yet,  perchance,  may  be  peaceful,  Helene, 
And  better  than  thou  hast  been; 

A  name  may  be  thine  thou  wilt  not  disdain  — 
The  name  of  a  Magdalen. 


JANE. 

Jennie,  Jennie,  handsome  Jennie, 

Eyes  of  brown,  and  auburn  hair; 
Blithe  and  merry,  winsome  Jennie, 
With  no  cloud  of  doubt  or  care, 
Always  happy, 
Oh,  so  happy! 

Knowing  naught  of  grief  or  pain; 
Thou  art  pretty, 
Gay  and  witty, 
Youthful,  singing,  laughing  Jane. 

Jennie,  Jennie,  dancing  Jennie, 

Bright  as  flowers  in  Summer  time 
Nimble  as  a  spendthrift's  penny, 
Fair  as  blooms  of  any  clime. 

Trusting  ever, 

Doubting  never, 
Pure  in  heart  and  clear  in  brain, 

None  above  thee, 

How  I  love  thee! 
My  own  precious,  darling  Jane. 

226 


IDEALITY. 

Jennie,  Jennie,  darling  Jennie, 

With  thy  wealth  of  shining  curls; 
Queen  thou  art,  oh,  fairest  Jennie, 

Of  the  world's  bright  throng  of  girls. 

First  in  beauty, 

First  in  duty, 
Nature  left  thee  naught  to  gain. 

Undeceiving, 

All  believing, 
Trusting,  truthful,  honest  Jane. 

Jennie,  Jennie,  blithesome  Jennie, 

Light  of  heart  and  bright  of  eye; 
None  that  see  thee,  of  the  many, 
Can  thy  wealth  of  charms  deny. 

Light  and  airy 

As  a  fairy, 
Flitting  down  the  rural  lane; 

Sunshine  bringing, 

Always  singing! 
Loving,  cheerful,  joyous  Jane. 


IDEALITY. 

The  beauty  of  the  faith  in  goodness, 

The  beauty  of  the  power  that  moulds, 
And  shapes,  and  fits  our  forms  and  beings 

To  fitting  palaces  for  souls; 
The  beauty  of  a  lofty  purpose, 

That  which  inspires  to  better  things, 
Pointing  aloft,  and  to  the  morning 

Which,  full  of  promise,  upward  springs. 

The  power  that  rules  the  lives  of  mortals, 

Stamps  there  an  image  all  its  own; 
The  ruling  power,  whate'er  its  purpose, 

Erects,  and  sits  upon  its  throne. 
To  wisely  choose  for  self  a  ruler 

Who  shall  from  error  set  us  free, 
Is  man's  most  earnest,  solemn  duty  — 

Far  reaching  as  eternity. 


227 


TURNING   OF   THE   TIDE. 

ALONE. 

Alone!  no  home  or  loved  ones  near; 

All  day  the  storm-clouds  fill  the  air, 
And  Summer's  brightest  skies  are  drear; 

All  thoughts  are  thoughts  of  dark  despair, 
E'en  laughter  dieth  in  the  moan  — 
Alone,  alone. 

Alone!  and  yet  the  careless  throng 

Surges  about  me,  and  the  hum 
Of  constant  voices  heard  in  song, 

Drum  on  my  ear  which  seemeth  dumb, 
Or  hears  in  every  sound  the  groan  — 
Alone,  alone. 

Alone!  how  heavy  on  the  heart 

The  sense  of  desolation  falls! 
Before  it  all  life's  joys  depart, 

As  memory  the  past  recalls: 
Grim  skeletons  of  joys  long  flown  — 
Alone,  alone. 


TURNING  OF  THE  TIDE. 

Now  calm  I  lie  dreaming, 

Stretched  out  on  my  bed, 

Alive,  yet  half  seeming, 
As  though  I  were  dead. 

The  fever  receding, 

Yet  haunting  my  brain, 
As  though  but  conceding 

One-half  of  its  reign. 

Or,  like  some  exulting, 
And  murderous  foe, 

As  though  but  consulting 
The  finishing  blow. 

To  see  loved  forms  gliding, 
Like  spirits  about 

My  bed,  or  abiding 

Near  to  me  in  doubt. 

228 


A   MYSTERY. 

Looking  so  feelingly 

Down  into  my  face, 
And  so  appealingly, 

As  if  hope  to  trace. 

Then  all  so  tearfully 

They  turn  from  my  bed, 

Sobbing  so  fearfully, 

Oft  thinking  me  dead. 

And  yet  to  be  living, 

And  know  all  around, 

Yet  powerless  of  giving 
A  sign  or  a  sound. 

I  fear  no  disaster, 

Though  scarce  have  I  breath: 
I  know  I  shall  master 

This  skeleton  —  death. 

At  length  I  grow  weary, 

I  sink  quite  away; 
I  hear  not  the  query: 
"How  is  he,  to-day?" 

At  last  I  awaken, 

Refreshed,  without  pain; 
My  strength  I've  mistaken. 

I  slumber  again. 

And  now  I  lie  resting, 

So  sweet  in  my  bed, 
And  know  I  am  besting 

The  foe  we  all  dread. 


A    MYSTERY. 

I  wonder:  Was  Time  ever  young  ? 

Had  he  a  birth  —  a  golden  morn? 
Who  round  his  infant  cradle  sung? 

From  whence  his  life,  if  he  were  born  ? 
If  he  were  born,  then  he  must  die  — 

His  death  would  mark  eternity; 
Who  o'er  his  grave  would  grieve  or  sigh  ? 

Ah,  well;  how  deep  the  mystery! 


229 


LOVING   AND   FISHING. 

On  a  lovely  Autumn  morning, 

I  and  lovely  Bessie  Lee 
Listened  to  the  boatman's  warning 

And  went  fishing  on  the  sea; 
Went  a-rocking  on  the  billows, 

Which  were  rolling  to  and  fro, 
Like  the  golden  weeping  willows 

\Vhen  the  winds  their  branches  blow; 
Where  the  great  waves  were  a-snapping 

As  they  came  a-near  the  land  — 
Bessie  said  "their  hands  were  clapping 

'Cause  they'd  reached  the  golden  sand. 

It  then  seemed  they  were  rejoicing 

Over  something  of  the  kind, 
For  their  mellow,  muffled  voicing 

Spoke  of  pleasure  to  my  mind. 
All  the  air  seemed  filled  with  singing, 

And  it  seemed  that  I  could  see 
Water-nymphs  and  mermaids  ringing 

vSilver  bells  beneath  the  sea; 
And  the  music  there,  in  dying, 

Fell  so  sweetly  on  our  ears 
That  our  souls  were  moved  to  sighing, 

And  our  eyes  were  moist  with  tears. 

Then  I  tried  to  speak;  said  something 

About  the  weather  and  the  wave, 
But  Bessie,  silent,  answered  nothing, 

Save  for  nodding,  low  and  grave, 
To  my  mention  of  the  beauty 

Which  was  in  the  tossing  sea, 
And  of  that  sweet,  solemn  duty  — 

Worshiping  of  melody. 
Presently  she  asked  a  story, 

And  I  cleared  my  throat  to  tell 
That  old  tale,  so  full  of  glory  — 

Sweeter  than  the  sound  of  bell. 


230 


a  j 

>  w 

fc  « 

i  a: 

w  a 

H  > 

<!  J 


-* 


•  f      i, 


LOVING    AND    FISHING. 

But  my  heart  was  quite  unsteadyr 

Like  our  boat  upon  the  wave, 
And  I  found  I  was  not  ready 

All  to  lose,  or  all  to  save. 
I  have  heard  of  some  great  master, 

Who'd  his  life  work  almost  done, 
One  more  stroke:  would  dire  disaster 

Follow  this  most  fateful  one  ? 
It  had  been  so  with  our  loving, 

Courting  most  by  look  and  hand; 
Would  my  speaking  be  the  proving 

For  our  hearts  no  golden  sand  ? 


And  that  question  kept  on  rising, 

As  a  cloud  obscured  my  mind, 
Until  it  was  not  surprising 

That  I  faltered,  halt  and  blind; 
For  it  seemed  like  hope  was  sinking 

Deep  and  deeper  in  the  sea, 
Doubt  and  fear,  together  linking, 

Joined  to  chain  and  fetter  me; 
Till  that  girl  —  oh,  Heaven  bless  her!  — 

Came  and  sat  close  by  my  side, 
And  with  fond  looks  bade  me  kiss  her  — 

Loving  seal  of  promised  bride. 


Teardrops  glistened  on  her  lashes, 

As  her  head  so  sweetly  lay 
On  my  bosom,  and  their  flashes 

Of  love's  jewels  made  display. 
Peaceful,  quiet,  solemn,  tender, 

WTas  the  light  from  those  dear  eyes, 
All  so  sweet  that  I  would  render 

Every  tribute  'neath  the  skies. 
Every  thought  filled  with  devotion, 

Set  to  wondrous  melody, 
As,  with  tenderest  emotion, 

We  found  Love's  treasure-trove  at  sea. 


231 


THE   COQUETTE. 

All  unnoticed  were  surroundings, 

All  to  each,  whate'er  betide; 
In  the  sea  of  Love,  the  soundings 

Are  unmeasured,  as  \ve  glide 
Ever  onward,  on  forever, 

Safe  while  Cupid  mans  the  oar, 
For  his  piloting  has  never 

Wrecked  a  bark  upon  the  shore; 
Straight  he  guides  our  little  vessel 

To  an  inlet  where  the  land 
Forms  a  harbor  where  we  nestle 

Safely  on  the  golden  sand. 

There,  hand-clasped,  we  sat  and  listened 

To  the  music  of  the  sea, 
As  the  sunlight  danced  and  glistened 

To  its  ceaseless  melody. 
"We  came  fishing,"  said  she  blushing, 

"Will  our  baskets  never  fill  ?  " 
"Never  while  our  hearts  are  rushing 

To  obey  King  Cupid's  will." 
So  we  sat  there  until  even 

Cast  its  shadows  o'er  the  land, 
Catching  glimpses  straight  from  Heaven 
Gleaming  on  the  golden  sand. 


THE    COQUETTE. 

Jaunty,  willful,  debonair, 
Bright  and  handsome,  passing  fair, 
Tripping  a-down  the  street  ; 
Catching  hearts  within  her  hair 
To  tread  beneath  her  feet. 


232 


WHY? 

Why  battle  with  Fate  and  in  feebleness  cry  ? 
'Eat,  drink  and  be  merry,  to-morrow  ye  die." 

Ye  cannot  check  Time,  he  will  ever  roll  on, 
And  death  will  pursue  thee,  as  evening  the  dawn. 

Aye,  Death  will  o'ertake  thee,  whatever  thy  course, 
The  present  is  thine  for  the  better  or  worse. 

The  present:  how  little,  and  yet  it  is  all, 

From  cradle  of  flowers,  to  the  hearse  and  the  pall. 

We  live  but  by  moments:  life  is  but  the  now ; 
The  future  for  thee  may  no  grace  yet  allow. 

Be  like  the  poor  moth-wing:  be  fooled  with  the  flame; 
It  is  true  to  its  nature:    Who  is  to  blame  ? 

The  bee  seeks  for  honey,  the  wolf  for  its  prey; 
The  owl  loves  the  night-time  far  better  than  day. 

All  life  lives  on  other  life,  'til  in  its  turn, 

It  falls  in  the  swirl  of  Time's  all-grinding  urn. 

Up  with  the  daylight  and  gather  the  flowers; 
The  jewels  of  life  are  its  bright,  sunny  hours. 

If  you  love  the  blossoms,  then  cull  them  to  keep, 
For  Winter  will  soon  o'er  the  flower  kingdom  sweep. 

Be  dull  as  the  sloth,  or  as  serpents  be  wise; 
He  gives  to  the  one  and  the  other  denies. 

Whatever  ye  are  in  a  measure  is  true 

To  the  lottery  card  which  at  birth-time  ye  drew. 

Why  battle  with  Fate  and  in  feebleness  cry  ? 
'Eat,  drink  and  be  merry,  to-morrow  ye  die." 


233 


TO   A   CHILD. 

COME,    LOVE,    AND   SPEAK. 

Come,  Love,  and  speak  ! 
What  shall  you  say  ?     Speak  from  your  soul  to  me 

Of  all  those  sweeter  thoughts  that  fill  thy  heart, 
And  make  forme  the  heaven  that  thou  art; 

For  as  the  thirsty  sky  draws  from  the  sea 
The  cooling  mists  for  it  to  feed  upon, 

So  is  thy  tender  touch,  thy  voice  and  smile, 
To  the  parched  desert  of  my  life,  where  gone 

Is  every  flower,  save  one,  me  to  beguile  — 
Without  thy  presence  I  am  lone  and  weak, 
Come,  Love,  and  speak. 

Come,  Love,  and  speak  ! 
I  cannot  bear  this  silence  longer,  dear; 

I  have  no  heart  for  aught  on  earth,  but  thee. 
Whence  come  these  troubling  shades  of  doubt  and  fear, 

And  muffled  sobbings,  like  the  restless  sea  ? 
Calling  unto  the  life  of  all  the  earth 

To  now  return  and  sleep  within  her  breast, 
From  whence  they  sprang,  at  kiss  of  sun,  to  birth; 

So  doth  my  soul  call  unto  thine  for  rest, 
And  will  thus  evermore  thy  true  love  seek  : 
Come,  Love,  and  speak  ! 


TO   A   CHILD. 

Sweet  child  of  joy,  if  it  could  be, 
That  to  thee,  in  the  future  years, 
No  storms  would  come  and  angrily 
Becloud  thy  life  with  sorrow's  tears, 
I  would  not  counsel  thee  to-day, 
That  life  cannot  be  always  May. 

The  rose  thou  thinkest  now  so  sweet, 
\Vill  soon  reveal  its  piercing  thorn; 
All  joys  have  wings,  of  motion  fleet, 
As  rosy  tintings  of  the  morn, 
For  in  the  heated  hours  of  day, 
Life's  burdens  rest  full  heavily. 

234 


TO   VIOLET. 

After  the  Spring  of  joy  and  bloom, 
There  cometh  frosts  of  pain  and  care; 
Jo}-s,  with  the  flowers,  fall  to  the  tomb, 
And  death-damps  fill  the  Autumn  air, 
While  Winter's  breath  across  the  wold, 
Flecks  all  earth's  garments  with  the  mold. 

I  would  but  speak  to  warn  thee  now, 
That  in  the  future  there  will  be 
A  crown  of  thorns  for  every  brow, 
That  guards  not  well  its  purity; 
Preserve  this  jewel  through  the  strife, 
And  thou  shalt  win  the  crown  of  life. 


TO   VIOLET. 

I  dream  of  thee,  I  dream  of  thee, 

My  sweet  and  lovely  Violet; 
Waking,  sleeping,  thy  face  I  see, 

Nor  one  sweet  charm  do  I  forget. 
Thy  gentle  sigh,  thy  melting  tear, 

Thy  trusting  hope  and  trembling  fear, 
Thy  loving  tone  when  I  am  near, 

Are  ever  with  me,  Violet. 

No  sweeter  charm  can  ever  come 

To  mortal  man,  my  Violet, 
Though  through  elysian  fields  he  roam, 

Than  comes  to  me,  my  gentle  pet, 
As  I  recount  each  moment  o'er, 

And  every  new  one  add'st  the  store, 
A  sweeter  than  I  knew  before 

I  met  thee,  charming  Violet. 

Joy  of  my  heart!  Soul  of  my  life! 

My  priceless  treasure,  Violet; 
Wilt  thou  not  be  my  own  dear  wife? 

And  if  thou  wilt,  thou'lt  ne'er  regret 
The  day  that  makest  thee  my  own; 

For"'Tis  not  good  man  be  alone, 
Nor  lonely  be,"  in  sweetest  tone, 

Whispered  my  own,  sweet  Violet. 


235 


FRIENDSHIP. 

TO    AN    ABSENT   LOVE. 

Oh,  could  you  know  the  weary  hours 

I've  spent  since  last  I  heard  from  thee, 
How  pains  my  heart,  how  throbs  my  head, 

How  all  my  life  is  misery, 
You'd  hasten  then  to  speak  your  love, 

To  soothe  my  brow  and  ease  my  pain; 
Be  true,  oh!  darling,  to  yourself, 

And  speak  those  words  of  love  again. 

Speak  frankly,  let  no  shade  of  doubt 

Lurk  in  the  words  that  tell  my  fate; 
Speak  truly,  though  the  truth  should  leave 

My  heart  all  crushed  and  desolate. 
For  Love  doth  live  on  trust  and  truth 

And  cycles  of  eternal  years 
Doth  frost  not  its  immortal  youth, 

Though  bathed  in  sorrows  and  in  tears. 


FRIENDSHIP. 

To  one  and  all  within  this  hall, 

I  fill  this  sparkling  cup; 
Drink  to  the  toast,  I  love  the  most, 

And  drain  it  every  drop! 
It  is  the  toast  of  friendship  true, 

Of  life  the  brightest  gem, 
I  here  and  now  would  offer  you  — 

Earth's  purest  diadem. 

The  chain  which  binds  all  noble  minds, 

In  love  and  unity; 
Matchless  its  strength  —  endless  its  length, 

Reaching  o'er  land  and  sea. 
Then  let  us  drink  to  friendship  true, 

The  priceless,  peerless  gem, 
Exemplified  by  Him  who  rose, 

As  star  of  Bethlehem. 


236 


A   TOAST   AT   A    BANQUET. 

CALMING  THE   STORM. 

Rejoice,  all  ye  people!  in  harmony  raise 

Your  voice  to  the  Lord  in  one  mighty  acclaim; 

Let  heaven's  blue  arches  resound  with  the  praise, 
You  joyfully  render  unto  His  great  name. 

The  Lord  has  been  with  us  in  wonderful  power, 

And  wrong  from  his  temples  again  has  been  hurl'd, 

And  right  wields  the  wand  of  command  in  this  hour, 
While  liberty  blossoms  all  over  the  world. 

Rejoice,  for  the  powerful  Goliah  is  slain; 

Rejoice,  for  his  slaves  are  unhanded  and  free! 
Oh,  sweet  was  the  music,  as  falling,  their  chains 

Struck  the  chords  which  awoke  the  world's  jubilee! 

Purified  by  the  fire  of  war's  with'ring  flame, 
Which  rolled  like  a  raging  sea  over  our  form, 

When  Peace  from  the  clouds  of  the  hurricane  came  — 
The  voice  of  Divinity  calming  the  storm. 


A  TOAST  AT   A   BANQUET. 

I. 
Fill  up  the  goblets;  a  toast  to  Queen  Pleasure! 

Life  without  wine,  for  this  hour,  is  too  slow; 
All  fill  them,  with  me,  then  tread  we  a  measure, 

Improving  the  moments,  as  swiftly  they  go. 
Light  is  the  heart,  while  with  joyousness  dizzy; 

Bright  is  the  eye,  while  the  lips  form  a  smile; 
With  merriment  now  we  all  should  be  busy, 

Fill  up  the  goblets!  we'll  mourn  afterwhile. 

II. 

Fill  up  the  goblets  and  clink  them  together! 

Fill  to  the  brim  with  the  bright  ruby  wine; 
Heed   not  the  season;    who  cares  for  foul   weather  ? 

Joy  is  of  life  the  sweet  crown  all  divine. 
On  with  the  music,  so  richly  entrancing; 

The  jewels  of  life  to  us  all  now  belong; 
On  with  the  story,  the  quaffing  and  dancing; 

Joy's  trinity's  here  :    wine,  women  and  song  ! 


237 


MY    CREED. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  LADY. 

Rest  \vell  sweet  flower; 
The  lives  of  all  about  thee  here 

Were  by  thy  spirit  rendered  bright; 
To  such  as  thou  the  way  is  clear, 

No  shadows  make  for  thee  a  night; 

Rest  well,  sweet  flower, 
Death  brings  to  thee  but  greater  power. 

Sweet  spirit,  rest, 

Thy  life  was  one  fair,  fragrant  bloom, 
Each  year  a  rose  of  spotless  white; 
The  petals  fall  into  the  tomb, 

The  fragrance  lives,  and  yields  delight, 

The  world  to  bless 
With  its  sweet  power  of  gentleness. 

Thou  art  not  here, 
And  yet  methinks  I  hear  thee  speak 

In  each  soft  breeze,  in  each  bright  flower, 
To  all  the  faint,  and  bid  them  seek 

Strength  from  the  fount  of  matchless  power; 

And  thus  art  here, 
The  weak  to  guide,  the  faint  to  cheer. 

A  true,  white  rose, 
So  purely  sweet,  so  sweetly  pure, 

All  hearts  to  thee  in  love  incline; 
Thy  power  for  aye  shall  yet  endure, 

Death  cannot  break  a  thought  divine. 

Rest  well,  sweet  rose, 
Eternal  bliss  be  thy  repose. 


MY    CREED. 

We  are,  and  may  before  have  been, 

May  in  the  future  be; 
'Tis  all  the  finite  mind  can  know, 

All  else  is  mystery. 


238 


DARLING    WII,MA. 

BURY   OUR   LOVE? 

Bury  our  love  !    Was  that  what  you  said  ? 

Blot  the  bright  star  of  hope  out  of  our  sky  ; 
Wreck  each  of  our  lives  on  the  threshold  of  joy  ; 

Starve  each  of  our  souls  till  they  wither  and  die  ! 

Hang  our  harps  on  the  willows,  ne'er  more  to  tune  them  ! 

Still  the  sweet  song  of  love,  ere  its  best  notes  be  sung  ! 
Draw  the  black  pall  of  night  o'er  life's  day  of  rejoicing, 

When  its  golden-hued  morning  has  only  begun  ? 

Blight  the  opening  bud,  ere  it  blooms  forth  in  beauty  ? 

Turn  to  ashes  the  rose,  and  destroy  its  perfume  ? 
Strip  the  sweet  tree  of  life  of  all  of  its  pleasures, 

And  leave  not  a  bud  on  its  branches  to  bloom  ? 

Pluck  not  the  rich  fruit,  when  'tis  matured  and  full  ripened  ? 

When  first  'tis  expressed,  decline  the  rich  wine? 
When  the  feast  is  prepared  and  the  guests  all  assembled, 

Refuse  on  its  richness  and  sweetness  to  dine  ? 

WThen  the  heart  and  the  soul  combine  in  their  pleading, 
To  be  fed  on  the  richness  and  sweetness  of  love, 

Oh,  list  to  their  voices,  and  heed  their  entreating  ; 
Then  the  earth  will  be  like  unto  heaven  above ! 

The  harvest  is  ripe  and  the  roses  are  blooming, 

Thy  sweet  smiles  were  their  sun,  and  thy  tears  were  their  dew 
They've  grown  and  are  ripened  for  thee,  my  sweet  darling, 

And  can  only  be  gathered  and  garnered  by  you. 


DARLING  WILMA. 

Angels  called  our  little  treasure 

To  a  home  beyond  the  sky, 
Robbed  us  of  our  dearest  pleasure, 

And  we  vainly  ask  them  why? 
Has  she  gone,  alas!  forever? 

Sorrow's  tears  they  fall  like  rain; 
Darling  Wilma,  will  she  never  — 

Never  to  us  speak  again  ? 

239 


DARLING    WILMA. 

See  the  work  of  Death's  cold  finger 

Round  her  beauteous  lips  and  eyes, 
Half  concealing  smiles  that  linger  — 

A  sweetness  that  e'en  Death  defies. 
Are  they  closed,  alas!  forever? 

Oh,  the  load  of  bitter  pain! 
Will  her  brown  eyes  on  us  never  — 

Never  on  us  look  again  ? 

Baby's  clasp,  how  sweet  and  tender, 

As  her  arms  around  us  twine, 
And  to  heaven  the  praise  we  render 

For  this  precious  gift  divine. 
Are  they  cold,  alas!  forever? 

Will  we  feel  no  more  their  strain  ? 
Will  her  dear  arms  clasp  us  never  — 

Never  clasp  our  necks  again  ? 

Baby's  ruby  lips,  how  loving! 

Like  the  rosebuds  of  the  Spring, 
Ever  music  sweet  unfolding, 

Like  the  songs  the  angels  sing. 
Are  they  silent,  cold  forever  ? 

At  the  thought  how  burns  the  brain! 
Will  her  sweet  lips  kiss  us  never  — 

Never  kiss  our  lips  again  ? 

Hope  beyond  Death's  shining  river 

Beams  upon  us  from  afar, 
With  the  promise  of  the  Giver 

Of  the  light  to  every  star. 
Glorious  star  that  shines  forever! 

Shines  for  all  in  doubt  and  pain; 
There,  beyond  Death's  welcome  river, 

We  shall  meet  our  child  again. 


240 


WRITTEN    IN   A    YOUNG    LADY'S   AI,BUM. 

A      VISION. 
I. 

Ill  youth  I  saw  a  vision,  wondrous  fair; 

The  clouds  within  the  sky  did  shape  themselves 

Like  unto  one  vast,  gorgeous  gallery; 

And,  from  all  points  around,  there  winging  came 

Ten  thousand  harpers,  with  their  harps  of  gold. 

And,  presently,  the  brilliant  air  was  filled 

With  notes  of  sweetest  melody  and  song, 

Which  floated  out  upon  the  balmy  air 

And  fell  upon  my  ear  with  soothing  sound. 

II. 

And  I  beheld  a  parting  in  the  clouds, 

Through  which,  familiar  to  my  eyes,  a  form 

Appeared,  with  snowy  robe  and  harp  of  gold. 

Then  did  the  sweet  winds,  breathing  faint,  yet  clear, 

Come  to  my  ear  again,  wafting  a  song 

Such  as  no  mortal  ear  e'er  heard  before; 

It  was  a  song  of  joy  and  praise  divine, 

Bringing  a  balm  for  sorrow  ill  each  sound. 

Lo  !  through  the  parting  in  the  clouds,  there  came 

A  flood  of  dazzling  light,  which  reached  to  Heaven, 

Up  which  the  white-robed  harpers  disappeared, 

Chanting  an  anthem  grand,  the  notes  of  which 

Still  echo  in  my  soul,  making  this  life 

More  bright  for  this  sweet  vision's  having  been. 


WRITTEN  IN  A  YOUNG  LADY'S  ALBUM. 

Sweet  maiden,  rich  in  Nature's  grace, 
With  eyes  of  brown  and  raven  hair, 

May  Sorrow's  shade  ne'er  cloud  thy  face, 
Nor  pale  thy  rosy  lips  with  care. 

Time  those  jet  locks  will  turn  to  gray, 
But  Love's  sweet,  gentle,  soothing  art 

Hath  power  to  drive  all  gloom  away, 
And  youth  preserve  within  thy  heart. 


241 


TULIPS  —  GOLDEN    HAIR. 

ADDRESS   TO   DEATH. 

'Tis  I  you  want  this  time,  Old  Boy  ? 

Well,  I  am  ready  now  to  go; 
Bring  you  me  peace,  or  pain,  or  joy  ? 

Go  I  above  or  down  below  ? 

Corne  now,  Old  Fellow,  tell  me,  pray, 
What  doth  the  Future  hold  for  me  ? 

Which  is  the  straight  and  narrow  way  ? — 
I've  asked  of  everyone  but  thee. 

Some  men  have  said:     This  is  the  road, 
And  others  said  'twas  surely  that; 

Go  which  I  would,  Life's  galling  load 
Upon  my  shoulders  heavy  sat. 

And  thou  wilt  lift  it  — let  me  rest  ? 

Ah,  Death,  thou  surely  art  my  friend; 
And  I  will  deem  thee  kindest,  best, 

If  thou  of  Life  prove  but  the  end. 

TULIPS. 

I  do  declare  a  form  more  fair 

It  never  was  my  chance  to  meet, 
Than  maid  with  wealth  of  golden  hair, 

Who  tends  the  flowers  across  the  street. 
The  violets  are  in  her  eyes, 

And  on  her  cheek  the  roses  bloom, 
And  in  her  smile  a  charm  there  lies 

Which  drives  away  all  thought  of  gloom. 
And  never  did  such  tulips  grow, 

So  rich  and  loving  and  so  sweet; 
I  would  their  sweetness  I  might  know, 

And  my  two  lips  her  two  lips  greet ! 


GOLDEN    HAIR. 

I  saw  in  dreams  a  maiden  fair, 

Whose  smile  was  all  that  love  could  kno\y; 
A  golden  banner  was  her  hair, 

Which  rose  and  fell  in  radiant  flow  ; 
Emblem  of  her  true  character. 


242 


WHAT    IS    DEATH  ? 

I  know  I've  had  my  hours  of  fun, 

From  many  flowers  have  sipped  the  dew, 

None  have  allowed  at  waste  to  run  — 
The  joys  of  life  I've  missed  are  few. 

But  then,  what's  of  it,  when  'tis  done  ? 

At  best  a  merry  holiday; 
Not  much  the  "pot"  when  it  you've  won  - 

PAor  life  I  care  not  here  to  stay. 

vSo,  if  you're  ready,  pack  your  grip, 
And  let's  be  going:  I'll  not  sigh; 

I'm  ready  now  to  take  the  trip. 

Old  world  of  trouble,  bye-you-bye. 


WHAT    IS    DEATH? 

You  think  him  dead  ?    let  me  whisper,  dear, 
This  one  sweet  thought  to  your  listening  ear: 
God  never  made  a  being  so  grand, 
Just  to  blot  it  out,  you  understand. 

He  could  not  cause  these  tears  to  flow, 
And  cloud  your  life  with  deepest  woe, 
And  sear  your  heart  with  bitter  pain, 
And  torture  thus  your  weary  brain. 

The  star  of  hope  he  would  not  place, 
Within  the  heart  of  all  the  race, 
If  he  held  not  in  goodly  store, 
The  lives  of  those  who've  gone  before. 

This  quenchless  hope  He  would  not  give, 
If  human  souls  e'er  cease  to  live: 
A  burning  thirst,  an  arid  sky, 
And  waters  none  to  them  supply, 

Would  wisdom  be,  and  mercy,  too, 
Compared  to  this,  if  I  and  you 
For  our  hungry  souls  shall  have  no  bread  ? 
Then  better  far  that  we  were  dead; 


243 


TO   A   BEAUTIFUL   MAIDEN. 

Or,  better  still,  that  we  ne'er  had  been, 

Of  this  world  a  part,  with  its  pain  and  sin. 

But  'tis  not  so:    no  want  is  known, 

From  God's  green  foot-stool  to  His  throne. 

But  He  has  placed,  with  tender  care, 
The  means  of  satisfaction  there. 
He  feeds  the  ravens  when  they  cry, 
A  sparrow's  fall  is  not  passed  by. 

Then  think  you,  dear,  the  highest  goal, 
To  which  turns  every  human  soul, 
Is  but  a  myth  within  the  air? 
Believe  it  not:    thy  love  is  there. 


TO    A   BEAUTIFUL   MAIDEN. 

They  told  me  you  were  beautiful; 
That  deep  within  your  lustrous  eyes 
The  Summer's  sunlight  never  dies; 
That  clearly  on  your  dear,  sweet  face 
Were  constantly  portrayed  each  grace, 
And  that  your  soft  and  silken  hair 
Was  like  to  that  the  angels  wear; 
That  your  soft,  dimpled  cheeks,  so  fair, 
Had  caught  Morn's  blush  and  held  it  there. 

But,  oh!  the  rapturous  delight 

WThich  thrilled  my  soul  at  the  first  sight 

Of  your  angelic  loveliness, 

Was  purest  type  of  mortal  bliss! 

Eye  hath  not  seen,  brush  cannot  paint, 

So  fair,  so  pure,  so  sweet  a  saint; 

Embodiment,  unto  my  mind, 

Of  all  that's  best  of  human  kind. 


244 


THE    SEA   OF    GALILEE. 


Cradled  among  thy  low-browed  hills, 
Which  stand  around  like  sentinels; 

Enraptured  thought  my  bosom  fills, 

While  on  thy  shores  my  fancy  dwells. 

For  here  the  man-God  dwelt  and  taught, 
Upon  thy  shores,  oh,  sacred  sea; 

That  wondrous,  solemn,  peaceful  thought, 
Sweet  thought  of  immortality! 

The  gentle  winds  from  off  thy  breast 
Seem  pure  and  sacred  to  me  now; 

They  by  His  presence  have  been  blest, 
Have  cooled  the  Holy  Savior's  brow. 

When  worn  and  weary,  weak  and  faint, 
Have  lulled  to  rest  and  sweet  repose, 

The  God  in  man,  the  kingly  saint, 
Who  lived  and  died  for  others'  woes. 

Therefore,  oh  sea,  I  love  thy  shores, 

Thy  arid,  scorched  and  burning  sands 

My  thankful  heart  this  spot  adores 
Above  all  other  earthly  lands. 


245 


HER    GRAVE. 

SOURCE  OF  CONSOLATION. 

Oh,  where  for  comfort  should  \ve  go, 

Dear  Lord,  except  to  thee, 
When  waves  of  sorrow  swiftly  flow 

Upon  us  like  a  sea  ? 

When  all  the  sunshine  of  our  life 
Is  drowned  in  chilling  rain, 

And  bitter  is  the  weary  strife 
And  hoping  seems  in  vain  ? 

When  earthly  friends  grow  formal,  cold, 

And  pass  us  proudly  by ; 
When  we  are  helpless,  sick  and  old, 

And  Pleasure's  fount  is  dry  ? 

Oh!  could  we  bear,  dear  Lord,  to  live, 

Or  who  would  dare  to  die, 
Did  not  Thy  loving  spirit  give 

Us  comfort  from  on  high? 

Did  not  thy  loving  spirit  say: 

"Come,  weary,  wandering  child, 
And  dwell  in  realms  of  endless  day, 
Pure,  stainless,  undefiled?" 

Thy  hand  can  chase  all  grief  away, 

Thy  spirit  ease  each  pain; 
To  each  believing  heart  dost  say: 
"Though  dead,  ye  live  again." 


HER    GRAVE. 

O'er  her  grave  the  nightingale  sings, 
And  the  soft  breeze  sigheth  low, 
As  day  departs  on  golden  wings, 
And  night  her  sable  mantle  flings, 
Over  all  the  world  below. 
Then  the  stars  with  golden  light, 
Pierce  the  curtains  of  the  night, 
And  watch  beside  her  lonely  grave, 
O'er  which  the  willow  branches  wave. 

246 


THE   OUTCAST. 

DESPONDENCY. 

There  are  times  in  life  when  living  seems  one  ceaseless,  bitter  pain; 
When  from  the  cold,  gray  clouds  above  us  falls,  incessantly,  the  rain, 
And  the  morning  and  the  evening  brings  to  us  no  light  again. 

When  our  Junes  are  all  Decembers,  cold  their  light  and  chill  their  breeze, 
And  no  prospect,  in  our  vision,  brings  a  thought  our  hearts  to  please, 
And  the  troubles  of  the  moment  banish  every  sense  of  ease. 

When  \ve  feel  a  tender  sorrow,  walking  ever  by  our  side, 
Dim  and  gaunt  the  shadows  swiftly  ever  by  us  onward  glide, 
And  we  feel  our  courage  ebbing  —  ebbing  slowly  with  the  tide. 


THE   OUTCAST. 

Though  golden  streams  of  sunlight  pour, 

About  my  daily  path, 
I  hear  alone  the  tempest  roar, 

The  hurricane's  fierce  wrath! 

Storm  tossed  upon  a  raging  sea, 

A  starless  sky  o'erhead; 
There  is  no  ray  of  hope  for  me, 

All  peace  and  light  have  fled. 

For  me  of  life  there  is  no  June; 

December's  chilling  breath, 
With  hungry  stars  and  waning  moon, 

Are  mine,  always,  'til  death. 

But  death!   how  sweeps  the  wild  despair 
At  thought  of  shroud  and  pall; 

Deep  darkness  fills  the  very  air  — 
Death  ends  not,  is  not  all! 

There  is  one  hope:  one  hope  for  me! 

'Tis  He  who  stilled  the  wave, 
When  raging  ran  the  stormy  sea: 

Who  said:    "Come,  I  will  save!" 


247 


MY   OTHER   SELF. 

EXPERIENCE. 

Mother,  I  find  that  the  pleasures  of  this  life  depart  with  its  morn, 

Like  the  fresh  and  pearly  dewdrops  that  bejewel  the  blades  of  corn  ; 

Like  mists  that  hang  o'er  the  river,  and  hood  the  great  mountains  and  hills, 

Then  away  to  the  great,  blue  air-sea,  then  back  to  the  lakes  and  rills. 

Only,  our  pleasures  return  not,  when  once  from  our  lives  they  have  flown; 

Once  gone,  they  are  gone  forever,  and  never  more  will  they  return. 

I  find  this  loving  and  hating,  and  hating  and  loving  again, 

Brings  less  of  joy  than  of  sadness,  and  far  less  of  pleasure  than  pain. 


MY    OTHER    SELF. 

This  other  self  of  myself,  do  you  know, 

Is  a  demon  black  of  the  fiends  of  hell; 
Hist  !  whisper  it  low,  curst  thought  more  low, 

Why  ring  it  out  with  a  clarion  bell  ? 

This  evil  wretch  I  have  known  all  my  days, 

He  has  dogged  my  steps  since  my  life  begun, 

Throwing  his  shadows  over  all  my  ways, 
Malignant  and  black  as  a  skeleton. 

I  smile  and  laugh,  but  beneath  it  there  lies 

This  fiendish  form  of  malignant  hate; 
All  thoughts  of  virtue  and  truth  he  derides, 

And  steadily  drags  me  down  to  my  fate. 

He  has  made  me  crush  full  many  a  flower, 

And  sneer  at  virtue  I  could  not  attain; 
He  holds  my  life  in  the  grasp  of  his  power, 

And  swears  me  no  respite  while  life  shall  remain. 

'Tis  well  he  keeps  well  away  when  I  feel 

The  bitter  dregs  he  has  caused  me  to  drink, 

Or  I'd  grind  his  head  'neath  an  iron  heel, 

Or  to  the  depths  of  hell  I'd  with  him  sink. 

Some  time,  some  place,  we  two  surely  will  clash, 
And  the  end  will  come,  if  it  end  in  death ; 

I've  promised  myself  to  do  nothing  rash, 

But  I'll  fight  this  fiend  while  I've  strength  and  breath. 


248 


AN    OCEAN    GRAVE. 

I'll  see  him  suffer,  though  my  soul  be  damned 
To  the  lowest  depths  of  a  burning  hell; 

I'd  torture  him  slow,  while  my  fierceness  calmed, 
To  a  level  lower  than  Satan  fell. 

Oh,  God!  how  I  wish  he  were  flesh  and  blood, 
That  I  could  but  place  him  upon  the  rack, 

And  poison  his  veins  till  the  crimson  flood 

Would  be  lit  with  a  flame  which  would  not  slack! 

I  think  that  nothing  would  please  me  more 

Than  to  grasp  his  throat  with  a  clasp  of  hate, 

And  grip  till  the  blood  from  his  every  pore 

Should,  drop  by  drop,  slowly  measure  his  fate. 

To  turn  the  wheel  slowly,  his  limbs  to  stretch, 
Till  Pain  should  limnings  of  agony  trace 

More  horribly  still,  on  the  soulless  wretch, 

While  I  should  mockingly  laugh  in  his  face. 


AN   OCEAN    GRAVE. 

Oh,  ocean  deep,  thy  vigils  keep 

Above  her  lonely  grave; 
Forever  mourn,  forever  weep, 

And  kiss  her  with  each  wave. 

Lull  her  to  rest  within  thy  breast, 

Sing  to  her  soft  and  low; 
When  daylight  fades  dim  in  the  West 

Let  fresh  winds  sweetly  blow. 

And  they  shall  bring,  on  tireless  wing, 

A  sigh,  a  prayer,  a  tear, 
From  one  whose  constant  suffering 

Ends  not  while  waiting  here. 

For  one  whose  breath,  'til  kindly  death 

Shall  call  his  spirit  hence, 
Will  waft  a  prayer  on  every  breath, 

To  do  her  reverence. 


249 


TO   A   FADED   FLOWER. 

THE   PAST. 

Though  still  and  dead, 

My  soul  is  wed 
To  thoughts  and  scenes  of  other  years; 

My  early  youth 

I  love,  forsooth, 

For  its  sweet  innocence  and  truth, 
Far  better  than  my  later  years. 

Its  shadowy  hills, 

Its  pleasant  rills, 
Its  meadows  fresh,  and  gardens  fair, 

Undimmed  I  see, 

As  then,  so  free* 

I  wandered  o'er  the  grassy  lea 
And  breathed  their  fresh  and  fragrant  air. 

I  love  to  walk 

Again,  and  talk, 
By  memory's  aid,  beneath  the  trees; 

To  list  again 

Down  in  the  glen, 

Where  in  my  youth  I've  often  been, 
To  mystic  tale  of  evening  breeze. 


TO    A    FADED    FLOWER. 

Dear,  faded  flower,  there  lingers  yet, 

About  thy  leaves  a  rare  perfume, 
More  sweet  than  rose  or  violet, 

Doth  e'er  exhale  in  fairest  bloom. 
For,  ere  she  gave  me  thee,  sweet  flower, 

She  plucked  thee  from  her  bosom  fair; 
Where  thou  lay  blushing  for  an  hour, 

And  breathing  sweetness  on  the  air. 
She  pressed  thee  to  her  lips,  my  flower, 

And  hallowed  thee  with  fondest  kiss; 
Earth  holdeth  not  within  her  power, 

A  purer,  richer  gift  than  this. 
My  precious  flower,  dear,  faded  flower, 

Thou  hast  been  honored,  richly  blessed: 
Hast  lain  upon  her  breast  an  hour, 

By  her  sweet  lips  hast  been  caressed  ! 

250 


A    QUESTION  —  MY    QUEEN. 

ETERNITY. 

Eternity!    Eternity! 
From  the  beginning  to  the  end; 
How  rolls  the  echo  back  to  me, 
Like  sobbings  of  some  unknown  sea, 
O'er  which  our  weary  pathways  tend! 

Eternity!    it  cannot  be, 

That  aught  but  truth  shall  e'er  endure; 

That  sin  shall  roll  unfettered,  free, 

An  angry,  stern,  relentless  sea, 

To  toss  and  wreck  the  good  and  pure. 

Eternity!    oh,  God,  how  long! 
Boundless,  unmeasured,  and  unknown! 
Above,  beyond  the  human  throng; 
To  thee  alone  doth  power  belong, 
To  compass  all  unto  thy  throne. 

When  all  the  worlds  were  formless,  void, 
Eternity  rolled  back  through  space, 
And  far  beyond  the  spoken  word, 
When  none  thy  voice's  echo  heard, 
Stood  emblem  of  thy  matchless  grace. 


A   QUESTION. 

The  forever  of  the  future, 
The  forever  of  the  past, 
The  forever  changing  present, 
Will  they  all  forever  last? 
We,  the  foam  upon  the  ocean, 
The  mere  product  of  the  motion 
Of  the  forces  which  create, 
Could  we  measure  all  the  forces, 
In  their  devious,  winding  courses, 
WTe  might  solve  our  future  state. 

MY    QUEEN. 
Soft  violets  blossom  in  her  eyes, 

And  on  her  cheek  the  tint  of  roses, 
While  in  her  heart  there  hidden  lies 

A  Cupid  sweet,  her  smile  discloses. 

251 


THE    OLD    HOMESTEAD. 

THE   PROPHESY. 

Awake,  oh,  ye  sleepers!    the  flood  gates  are  swinging, 

And  high  roll  the  billows  and  swift  runs  the  tide; 
The  oncoming  years  a  Marseillaise  are  singing, 

A  great  revolution  is  fast  spreading  wide! 
Awake!    oh,  ye  sleepers!    and  climb  to  the  summit 

Of  prophesy's  mountain,  and  take  a  survey; 
The  future  demands  that  the  square  and  the  plummet 

Shall  measurements  take,  which  the  world  must  obey. 

Awake!    oh,  ye  sleepers!    for  just  indignation, 

Shall  sweep  like  a  flood  of  destruction  along, 
Destroying  the  evil  and  cleansing  the  Nation, 

From  crimes  which  arise  from  consenting  to  wrong! 
Then  woe  to  the  wicked  and  wretched  despoiler, 

Whose  vile  work  is  the  ruin  of  his  fellow  men; 
Who  steals  from  the  trembling  hand  of  the  toiler  — 

'Twould  be  better  for  him  that  he  never  had  been! 

Then  woe  to  the  party  that  panders  to  passion; 

That  treads  out  the  voice  of  the  conscience  and  heart; 
That  revels  alone  in  the  power  of  possession; 

That  bids  not  its  errors  in  haste  to  depart! 
The  sun  of  its  triumph  is  fast  near  its  setting; 

The  light  of  its  glory  is  fading  away; 
The  heart  of  the  people  rebel  at  abetting, 

The  crimes  that  are  cursing  the  Nation  today. 


THE   OLD    HOMESTEAD. 

Nothing  here  lingers; 

Time's  restless  fingers 

The  scene  have  changed  and  altered  all, 

Memory  endears, 

Of  other  years, 

And  covered  them  as  with  a  pall. 

All  here  is  strange, 

Oh,  such  a  change, 

Old  time  has  wrought  by  flight  of  years! 

Many  are  dead, 

And  all  are  wed, 

To  later  life  of  joy  or  tears. 


252 


LADY    BROWN. 

Those  who  were  strong, 

Have  passed  along, 

Life's  river  till  their  strength  is  passed; 

A  few  more  days, 

Of  Summer  haze, 

And  there  life's  sun  will  shed  its  last. 

Soon  they  will  be 

At  liberty, 

For  soon  the  welcome  gate  of  death, 

Will  open  wide, 

And  'neath  tha  tide 

Of  Time  they'll  yield  their  mortal  breath. 

Alas!    'tis  dead  — 

The  life  I  knew, 

With  youth's  bright,  joyous  hours  has  fled; 

The  false,  the  true, 

Like  morning  dew, 

Has  flown  and  left  a  chill  of  dread! 


LADY     BROWN. 

Clear,  honest  eyes  has  Lady  Brown; 

Such  soulful  eyes  !     You  feel  them  speak 
Whene'er  her  looks  your  glances  seek; 

Those  eyes  have  won  a  great  renown 
For  Lady  Brown. 

She  wears  a  coat,  does  Lady  Brown, 
As  soft  as  silk,  with  airs  as  grand 
As  any  lady  in  the  land; 

Polished  and  fine,  from  tip  to  crown, 
Is  Lady  Brown. 

If  she  should  speak,  should  Lady  Brown, 
She  could  not  tell  of  Noah's  ark; 
She  could  at  best  but  whine  or  bark. 

But  then,  she  knows  a  smile  or  frown, 
Does  Lady  Brown. 


253 


WHATEVER    YOU    WII.I,. 

When  I  lay  sick,  this  Lady  Brown 
Would  come  and  sit  beside  my  bed, 
With  looks  as  plain  as  though  words  said: 
"  Shall  I  not  run  the  stairway  down 
For  Colonel  Brown?" 

A  wave  of  hand,  and  Lady  Brown 
Would,  instantly,  walk  swift  away, 
And  by  her  looks  and  actions  say: 
"  Colonel,  for  you  I  just  came  down  " — 
Would  Lady  Brown. 

Thoughtful  and  kind  was  Lady  Brown; 
Whenever  I  was  sound  asleep 
She'd  softly  through  my  chamber  creep. 

Or,  'til  I  wakened,  lay  her  down, 
Would  Lady  Brown. 


WHATEVER   YOU    WILL. 

This  world  is  whatsoe'er  they  wish 
To  every  being  in  it; 

The  good  or  bad 

Can  e'er  be  had, 
On  call,  at  any  minute. 

And  every-  one  may  take  his  will, 
And  have  it  to  the  letter; 
But  raise  his  voice, 
Pronounce  his  choice, 
For  ill,  or  good,  or  better. 

Like  unto  like  will  surely  cleave, 
Be  whatsoe'er  the  station; 

Moths  to  the  night, 

Birds  to  the  light, 
All  over  God's  creation. 

The  humming  bird  will  love  the  rose; 
The  vulture  has  its  feature; 

The  sly  fox  knows 

His  safe  repose, 
Likewise  each  other  creature. 

254 


THE   TIRELESS    SHIP. 

The  low,  the  vicious,  and  the  vile, 
Will  seek  their  chosen  level; 

Will  be  as  one 

While  rolls  the  sun, 
And  all  go  to  the  devil. 

But,  thank  the  Lord,  those  who  may  choose 
The  pathway  of  transition, 

May  reach  the  goal 

Of  the  pure  soul 
That  loves  Heaven's  condition. 


THE   TIRELESS  SHIP. 

This  old  world  ships  a  motley  crew, 
For  its  swift  voyage  round  the  sun; 

About  its  shoreless  sea  of  blue, 

How  the  old  ship  doth  haste  to  run! 

Bounding  away  day  after  day, 

Without  a  shroud,  or  sail,  or  spar; 

It  speeds  along  its  beaten  way, 

Nor  ever  stops,  its  force  to  mar. 

It  is  as  grain  of  sand  to  shore  — 

A  fragment  of  some  greater  thing, 

Tossed  out  in  space  to  roll  before 

The  wave  of  that  one's  greater  wing. 

And  pigmies  scamper  o'er  its  deck, 
Or  walk  sedately  here  and  there; 

As  though  their  will  could  save  from  wreck, 
Or  swerve  its  course  a  single  hair. 

A  pigmy,  thinking  him  a  king, 

And  guiding  the  old  world  to  port, 

Proves  him  a  pigmy  without  wing, 
And  fit  with  every  fool  to  sport. 

Each  insect  of  the  earth,  though  small, 
Feels  its  importance,  just  the  same; 

And  each  to  each,  alike  to  all, 

Confers  the  honor(?)  of  a  name  ! 


255 


MEMORIES. 

VENICE. 

I  stand  within  thy  sea-girt  bounds, 
And  listen  to  thy  mystic  sounds 
As  from  the  deeper,  farther  sea, 
They  come  with  fairy  songs  to  thee, 
Bearing  upon  each  crested  wave 
The  secrets  of  some  hidden  cave. 

Resting  in  peace  upon  the  sea, 
Beautiful  queen  of  Italy, 
Thou  art  a  vision,  oh,  so  fair  ! 
With  sparkling  waters  for  each  street. 
Which  lave  and  kiss  thy  mossy  feet 
And  cool  thy  soft  and  fragrant  air. 


A    TWILIGHT   MEMORY. 

When  dying  day,  with  softened  grace, 

The  shadows  of  the  twilight  trace 

Across  the  bosom  of  the  earth, 

Then  in  the  gloaming  come  to  me, 
From  out  the  halls  of  memory, 

Visions  of  her  who  gave  love  birth. 

I  see  love  dancing  in  her  eyes, 

And  on  her  lips  in  sweetness  lies 

The  darling  impulse  of  her  heart; 

And  trembling  o'er  her  fair,  young  form, 
Love's  crimson  blushes,  pure  and  warm, 

Spring  from  the  wounds  of  Cupid's  dart. 

Then  every  glance,  so  sweet  and  shy, 

Is  clear  to  my  adoring  eye, 

As  when  those  brown  eyes  sparkling  sent 
Her  youthful  soul,  so  pure  and  sweet, 
Upon  its  mission  mine  to  greet 

With  love's  expressive  sentiment. 


256 


THE    HAUNTED    LAKE. 


There's  a  deep,  blue  lake  that's  haunted, 
And  the  bravest  and  undaunted 
Never  yet  a  sail  have  flaunted 

To  the  wind  which  o'er  it  rolls; 
For  though  it  may  have  the  seeming 
Of  a  placid,  peaceful  dreaming, 
Yet  its  waves  are  ever  teeming 

With  a  legion  of  lost  souls. 

Many  years  —  they  are  unnumbered  — 
Since  it  has  thus  peaceful  slumbered, 
Since  it  has  been  unincumbered 

By  the  flutter  of  a  sail; 
When  a  band  of  merry-makers 
Ploughed  its  bosom  —  echo-wakers, 
Shouting  loud,  'til  'neath  its  breakers 

They  sank  down  with  sob  and  wail. 

And,  they  say,  so  runs  the  story 
Of  this  dark  memento  mori, 
Falling  from  the  aged  and  hoary, 

That  a  maiden,  young  and  fair 
Saw  a  Siren  in  the  water, 
\Vho  imploringly  besought  her 
To  become  her  loving  daughter, 

From  the  regions  of  the  air. 

And  this  Siren  sang  so  sweetly 

That  she  charmed  the  maid  completely; 

And  the  maiden  dived  so  neatly 

'Neath  the  gently  swelling  wave, 
That  her  comrades  were  confounded, 
And  so  greatly  were  astounded, 
That  their  lips  no  murmur  sounded, 

As  they  looked  upon  her  grave. 


257 


THE    HAUNTED    LAKE. 

There  they  waited,  speechless,  seeming 
As  if  paralyzed  or  dreaming, 
Where  the  water-lilies,  teeming, 

Spread'their  palms  upon  the  lake; 
Waiting  for  the  maid's  returning, 
With  their  anxious  hearts  all  yearning, 
And  their  throbbing  temples  burning 

With  a  flame  that  would  not  slake. 

Then  a  low  wind  softly  winging 
O'er  the  waters  came,  there  bringing 
Sound  of  myriad  voices  singing; 

And  the  waters  rose  and  fell 
As  if  demons,  fierce  in  motion, 
Had  the  lake  changed  to  an  ocean, 
Whose  wild,  frantic,  fierce  commotion 

Grew  more  powerful  with  each  swell. 

Then  the  billows  rose,  and  dashing 

That  frail  barque  sent  trembling,  crashing 

Hither,  thither,  yonder,  lashing, 

'Til  all  sank  with  shriek  and  groan; 
Then  the  waters  in  their  madness 
Seemed  to  shout  in  tones  of  gladness, 
Which  they  sudden  changed  to  sadness  — 

Which  has  since  then  been  their  tone. 

Since  that  day  all  barques  have  warning, 
From  the  gloaming  'til  the  morning, 
None  will  think  the  tale  of  scorning; 

Hence  upon  this  haunted  lake 
Never  oar  nor  sail  appeareth, 
For  all  sailors  greatly  feareth 
That  if  they  a  barque  there  steereth, 
That  the  demons  will  awake. 


DREAMING. 
I  would  I  might  forever  dream, 

For  waking  hours  are  full  of  woe, 
As  drops  of  water  in  the  stream 

That  never  cease  to  onward  flow. 

258 


LIFE  S   LESSON. 

AN    ANGEL'S    VISIT. 

Heaven  sent  to  our  home  a  dear  little  stranger, 

A  sweet,  blue-eyed  darling,  with  soft,  sunny  hair, 

As  pure  as  the  God-child  that  lay  in  the  manger, 
Was  this,  our  own  darling,  our  beautiful  heir. 

Then  our  sweet  cup  of  joy  was  filled  to  o'erflowing, 

Each  morning  of  life  seemed  more  fresh  and  more  fair, 

And  Heaven  itself  seemed  enriched  by  bestowing 
Upon  us  this  flower  from  its  garden  so  fair. 

LIFE'S   LESSON. 

My  star  of  hope  sinks  in  a  cloud  of  gloom, 
I  vainly  struggle  'gainst  the  tide  of  fate  ; 

Nothing  is  certain  but  the  gaping  tomb, 
To  which  I  drift  all  lone  and  desolate. 

Life's  burden  groweth  heavy  with  the  years  ; 

The  present  doth  the  past  alone  repeat  ; 
Its  bitter  sorrows,  poignant  grief  and  tears 

Doth  beat  upon  and  tread  me  'neath  their  feet. 

The  cruel  darts  of  sorrow  pierce  my  soul, 

And  grief  with  heavy  curtains  drapes  my  heart; 
Remorse  in  heavy  waves  doth  o'er  me  roll, 
And  long  I  this  life's  troubles  to  depart. 

Pleasure  is  but  a  blank,  unmarked  by  pain, 

An  idle  eddy  in  the  stream  of  life, 
Where  we  may  list  unto  some  sweet  refrain 

Between  the  battles  of  this  weary  strife. 

The  oil  of  rich  desire  now  burneth  low, 

The  fruits  that  once  were  sweet  now  bitter  seem ; 

E'en  Hope  has  lost  the  power  she  used  to  know, 
And  flickers  faintly  her  once  radiant  gleam. 

This  is  the  lesson  all  must  come  to  learn  ; 

The  crucial  test  of  character  and  will 
Is  that  which  makes  the  soul  and  heart  to  burn, 

'Til  all  dross  be  consumed,  that  peace  may  fill. 


259 


A    MAGICAL   CITY. 

Far  up  in  a  maze  of  glory 

By  omnipotence  uphurled, 
Tower  the  domes,  and  spires,  and  steeples 

Of  a  grand  and  silent  world. 

Far  above  the  noise  and  bustle 

Of  the  rushing  feet  below, 
Are  the  towering,  cloud-capped  mountains, 

With  their  coronets  of  snow. 

When  the  light  of  day  has  left  us, 
And  the  mantle  of  the  night 

Is  enfolding  us  in  silence, 

All  those  peaks  are  bathed  in  light. 

There  the  sunbeams  love  to  linger, 

Kissing  beauty  into  birth, 
And  to  crown  with  flames  of  glory 

All  those  snow-wreathed  kings  of  earth. 

Like  some  splendid,  radiant  city 

To  my  rapturous  gaze  they  seem, 

All  illuminated  grandly 

By  the  day-god's  golden  gleam. 

And  niethinks  I  oft  hear  music 

Falling  to  the  world  below, 
From  the  lutes  of  mountain  spirits 

In  those  palaces  of  snow. 

And  I  sometimes  weep  in  sadness, 

For  this  music  sweet  I  know 
Will  fade  like  a  dream  of  beauty  ; 

Will  melt  like  the  flakes  of  snow. 

And  my  soul  cries  out  in  anguish 

That  this  scene  should  fade  and  die, 

And  the  low  winds  in  the  gloaming 
Echo  back  my  lonely  cry. 


260 


WITHOUT   AND    WITHIN. — QUEEN    OF   THE    MUSES. 

ON    KISSING. 

My  Rose,  few  know  the  wondrous  bliss, 

The  sweet,  ecstatic  thrill, 
When  all  the  soul  within  a  kiss 

Is  given  with  a  will; 
And  yet  with  that  soft,  gentle  touch, 
Which  speaks  of  passion  not  too  much. 

Come,  love,  while  shadows  fold  the  hour, 

And  sit  beside  me  here, 
While  Nature,  with  her  silent  power, 

Our  hearts  to  each  endear; 
And  let  us  with  affection  kiss, 
Our  hearts  to  love's  unmeasured  bliss. 


WITHOUT    AND    WITHIN. 

To  and  fro, 
To  and  fro, 

The  willows  sway  amid  the  storm; 
The  raindrops  clash, 
And  wildly  dash 

Against  the  window  pane  and  sash, 
While  all  within  is  light  and  warm. 


QUEEN    OF    THE    MUSES. 

My  own  loved  queen,  forever  reign 

With  undisputed  sway, 
And  to  my  heart  love's  glad  refrain 

Repeat  from  day  to  day; 
And  when  the  shadows  of  the  night 

Remove  the  day's  bright  beam, 
Fill  thou  my  soul  with  sweet  delight, 

By  love's  enchanting  dream. 


261 


SUNSET. 
The  sun  has  passed  from  the  mountain, 

And  thrown  his  last  kiss  to  the  sea  ; 
The  spray  from  the  splashing  fountain 

No  longer  bediamonds  the  lea. 
The  king  of  day  has  departed 

With  his  gorgeously  brilliant  train  ; 
The  world  is  wrapped  in  night's  curtain, 

'Til  day's  glorious  coming  again. 

The  toil,  the  sorrow,  the  weeping, 

The  blasting  and  withering  pain, 
Gives  way  to  the  peaceful  creeping 

Of  comforting  sleep  o'er  the  brain. 
A  sweet  and  comforting  message 

Conies  from  immortality's  plain, 
Its  sweet-scented,  life-giving  breezes 

My  sad  soul  exultingly  seizes, 
And  I  fear  no  more  the  dark  river, 

The  blood-chilling,  life-killing  river, 
For  I  shall  reach  Heaven's  bright  plain, 

Kind  Heaven's  soul's  home-prepared  plain. 

I  feel  my  journey  is  ended, 

My  beacon-light  dies  in  the  West  ; 
My  day  with  night's  gloaming  is  blended, 

I  calmly  lie  down  to  my  rest, 
As  a  child  on  its  mothers  breast  sleeping, 

The  innocent  sleep  of  the  blest. 
As  the  winds  from  the  lethean  river 

A  song  sweetly  sing  to  my  soul  — 
A  lullaby  sing  to  my  soul, 

And  my  spirit  goes  up  to  life's  Giver, 
In  thanks  for  the  lethean  river, 

And  its  endless  and  mystical  roll. 


262 


THE    LOVERS. 

Thank  God,  I  have  reached  the  dark  river, 

The  boundary  of  all  mortal  life, 
Unbended  my  bow,  and  my  quiver 

Has  spent  all  its  arrows  of  strife, 
All  its  arrows  of  envy  and  strife, 

And  I  lay  down  my  bow  and  my  quiver 
For  beyond  the  lethean  river 

They  wear  not  the  armor  of  strife. 

Like  the  over-ripe  stock  of  the  harvest, 

Awaiting  the  husbandman's  knife, 
So  I  await  for  the  boatman, 

And  the  sound  of  his  light  canoe  : 
Not  as  I  wait  for  a  foeman, 

But  the  clasp  of  a  hand  that  is  true, 
To  pilot  me  safely  over 

Through  the  mists  and  clouds  that  hover, 
'Twixt  this  and  the  heavenly  shore, 

The  ever  bright,  love-lighted  shore. 


THE  LOVERS. 

Their  parting  words  in  anger  burned, 
Their  lips  were  curled  with  scorn, 
With  bitterness  and  scorn; 
And  yet  their  hearts  within  them  yearned, 
With  loving  longing  throbbed  and  burned, 
On  that  September  morn. 

Haughty  and  proud,  neither  would  yield, 

Though  anyone  could  see, 

With  half  an  eye  could  see, 
Their  hearts  to  each  were  never  sealed, 
Their  very  scorn  this  truth  revealed 

So  plainly  unto  me. 

And  yet  they  parted  on  that  morn, 

In  manner  quite  austere, 

Quite  frigid  and  severe; 
Another  hour  had  not  been  born 
Before  each  shed,  with  sigh  forlorn, 

The  penitential  tear. 

263 


A   MESSAGE. 

SELF-ADMONITION. 

Oh,  troubled  heart  be  still,  be  cairn,  be  brave, 

Rise  in  thy  might  and  prove  thine  own  self  strong; 

Force  back  the  rising  tears  and  freeze  the  fount 

Of  weakness  whence  they  spring,  and  let  no  act, 

Of  either  friend  or  foe,  swerve  thee  one  jot 

From  path  which  marks  the  royal  way  of  truth 

Unto  thyself.     Cast  from  life's  troubled  barque, 

If  needs  be,  everything,  save  self-respect; 

But  to  this  do  thou  cling  as  unto  hope, 

And  storms,  however  fierce,  at  length  will  calm, 

And  skies,  however  dark,  will  beam  with  light, 

And  sorrow's  tears  give  way  to  smiles  of  joy, 

And  bitter  thoughts  be  turned  to  thoughts  of  love. 

Pain  enters  deeper  into  souls  of  truth 
Than  into  those  that  lesser  heed  her  ways. 
Virtue  full  oft  receives  the  crown  of  thorns, 
While,  for  a  season,  roses  bloom  about 
The  paths  of  sin,  but  at  the  core  the  worm 
Which  dieth  not,  saps  every  fount  of  peace 
And  withers  every  budding  thought  of  joy, 
Eclipsing  hope  and  nourishing  despair. 


A   MESSAGE. 

Blow  softly,  sweet  winds,  on  her  brow; 

Kiss  gently  her  fair,  rosy  cheek, 

And  unto  her  pearly  ear  now 

vSome  sweet  thought  of  love  gently  speak. 


264 


PATRIOTIC  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


INDEPENDENCE    DAY. 


EROIC  deeds  make  holy  days  ; 

The  brightest  page  of  all  the  years 
Is  that  which  to  the  race  displays 

The  grandest  truth  undimmed  by  fears. 
A  faith  that  firmly,  boldly  stands 

On  the  eternal  rock  of  Right; 
That  ceases  not  in  its  demands 

For  justice,  liberty  and  light! 

Faith  in  the  future  of  mankind, 

Faith  in  the  glory  yet  to  be, 
That  strengthens,  lifts  and  lights  the  mind- 

Presaging  final  victory. 
A  freedom  that  shall  know  no  king 

Save  justice,  when  with  mercy  shown; 
That  every  fetter  yet  shall  fling 

To  ocean  winds  when  fiercely  blown. 

Oh,  day!  most  sacred  to  the  race, 

Oh,  day!  that  gave  to  Freedom  birth; 
That  thrones  of  tyrants  did  displace, 

And  all  the  world  with  hope  did  girth; 
We  greet  thee  with  joy's  loud  acclaim, 

In  anthem  grand,  and  martial  song, 
We  worship  Freedom  in  thy  name  — 

Immortal  enemy  of  wrong. 


267 


INDEPENDENCE    DAY. 

Thy  emblem,  light;  its  starry  folds, 

Borne  on  the  waves  of  heaven's  air; 
In  it,  mankind  at  last  beholds 

The  proudest  ensign  floating  there. 
Banner  of  Truth!  forever  shine, 

Thy  staff  unmoved  shall  e'er  endure; 
Thy  radiant  glory  all  divine, 

Shall  to  the  race  their  rights  secure. 

Before  thy  gleams  the  shades  of  night, 

Rolled  back  in  terror  when  the  day 
Of  thy  effulgent  birth  of  light 

Made  clear  to  all  proud  Freedom's  way. 
The  hand  of  error  fell  from  power; 

Wrong  from  her  citadels  was  hurled; 
Baptized  in  thy  first  natal  hour, 

Proud  day  and  banner  of  the  world  ! 

Under  the  guidance  of  thy  stars, 

Man  shall  attain  his  highest  goal; 
No  blot  his  sovereign  armor  mars, 

Unfettered,  free,  his  mind  and  soul. 
Free  to  unfold  into  the  light, 

Free  to  reach  upward,  on  and  on; 
Free  to  dispel  the  shroud  of  night, 

And  chant  a  welcome  to  the  dawn. 

Fill  full  the  bowl  and  let  us  drink 

To  every  hero  of  the  past; 
For  none  beneath  the  waves  should  sink, 

Their  work  complete  stands  forth  at  last 
Fill  full  the  bowl,  for  all  divine 

Above  us  floats  against  the  sky, 
"  Old  Glory,"  Freedom's  spotless  sign, 

With  spirit  that  can  never  die! 

Then  hail,  all  hail  this  sacred  hour  ! 

Wrong  meets  again  its  Waterloo; 
For  here  \ve  grasp  the  prize,  the  flower  — 

Man's  brotherhood  forever  true. 
The  deeds  of  martyrs  all  sublime, 

Of  all  the  ages  past  are  blent, 
Whate'er  their  country  or  their  time, 

In  Freedom's  perfect  monument. 

268 


THE    SWORD    OF    GRANT. 

Oh,  sons  of  Poland,  rise  and  sing  ! 

Oh,  spirits  of  Thermopylae  ! 
For  you  the  glorious  plaudits  ring, 

Though  sleeping  far  beyond  the  sea; 
Awake  !    arise  from  your  repose, 

And  join  the  world's  glad  jubilee; 
Now  sweetly  blooms  your  cherished  rose  — 

Man  walks  the  earth  unfettered,  free  ! 

A  wreath  !    A  wreath  !    Crown  every  tomb. 

Of  those  who  fought  in  honor's  name; 
They  died  that  Freedom's  flowers  might  bloom 

Give  to  them  each  a  deathless  fame ! 
Above  the  graves  where  heroes  sleep, 

Let  bloom  the  sweet  forget-me-not, 
While  nations  bow  their  heads  and  weep  — 

With  holy  tears  embalm  each  spot. 


THE    SWORD   OF    GRANT. 

Preserve  that  sword  for  it  shall  be, 

Through  ages  yet  to  come, 
A  token  bright  of  loyalty 

To  every  peaceful  home; 
And  all  shall  love  it  o'er  the  earth, 
As  emblem  of  the  matchless  worth 

Where  e'er  sweet  peace  shall  roam. 
Of  him  who  crowned  fair  liberty, 
With  power  and  strength,  in  victory. 

Preserve  it  well,  it  is  to-day 

The  Nation's  glorious  pride, 
Its  honor  ne'er  can  fade  away, 

Through  fire  it  has  been  tried. 
Ivet  roses  deck  it,  and  the  vine 
Around  its  gleaming  blade  entwine, 

For  none  on  earth  beside, 
Was  drawn  with  firmer  hope  to  see 
Peace  rule  the  world  in  harmony. 

269 


A  LEADER'S  DEATH. 

Sacred  for  aye  this  gleaming  blade, 

As  Freedom's  sacred  sod, 
By  tyrant  hands  though  long  delayed, 

It  voiced  the  will  of  God; 
As  with  its  glinting  flash  of  steel, 
It  did  sweet  liberty  reveal, 

To  those  beneath  the  rod, 
Establishing  kind  heaven's  plan; 
The  noble  brotherhood  of  man. 

Preserve  it  for  the  noble  deeds 

Of  valor  it  has  done, 
Its  simple  faith  unbound  by  creeds, 

Wrought  for  man's  good  alone; 
'Twas  drawn  in  war  that  we  might  see 
Peace  rule  our  land  in  unity, 

For  this  its  battles  won, 

And  that  sweet  peace  the  land  should  bless, 
With  all  her  joy  and  gentleness. 


A    LEADER'S    DEATH. 

Strike  the  timbrel,  sound  the  lyre, 

Let  sad  requiems  be  sung, 
The  muffled  bells  be  softly  tolled, 

Let  all  souls  to  Heaven  aspire 
In  low  and  solemn  words  of  prayer, 

For  the  soul  of  the  departed  — 
For  the  great  life  which  is  no  more. 

Bury  our  hero  with  tenderest  care, 
Fashion  the  tomb  where  his  frame  shall  repose, 
Under  the  willows,  and  let  it  be  where 

The  nightingale  sings,  and  bloometh  the  rose. 

Let  deep-toned  cannon's  thunder, 
Rend  the  azure  robe  asunder, 
With  their  voice  of  warlike  thunder, 
As  they  speak  the  awful  tidings 
Of  the  Nation's  stupendous  loss; 
Fitting  it  is  that  "war  dogs'  "  notes 
Should  echo  from  their  iron  throats 
A  lament  o'er  his  noble  tomb; 


270 


A  LEADER'S  DEATH. 

For  when  the  air  was  filled  with  gloom  — 

With  treason's  dark  and  awful  gloom  — 

By  his  command  their  wild,  fierce  boom 

Bespoke  for  treason  a  short  life. 

And  bore  the  Nation  through  the  strife 

Of  civil  war,  and  it  arose 

Proud  conqueror  o'er  all  its  foes. 

The  debt  to  him  the  Nation  owes 

Is  all  that  human  power  can  pa}*  — 

On  beds  of  laurel  to  repose  — 

To  place  his  name  beyond  decay. 

To  write  on  each  and  every  heart, 

In  words  of  bright  and  glowing  flame, 

The  greatness  of  his  matchless  name; 

Embalm  in  story  and  in  song, 

How  for  the  right  and  'gainst  the  wrong 

He  wrought  with  superhuman  skill, 

Surpassing  with  his  iron  will 

And  wondrous  judgment,  all  the  deeds 

Achieved  by  man,  whate'er  the  creeds 

Which  urged  them  on  ;    his  holy  plan 

Was  to  exemplify  in  man 

The  right  which  since  the  world  began 

Had  been  denied  —  the  right  to  be 

A  man,  untramnieled,  upright,  free. 

Mourn,  for  the  warrior  is  no  more; 

Mourn,  for  the  statesman  is  no  more; 

Mourn,  for  the  soldier  lieth  prone; 

Mourn,  for  the  citizen  is  gone. 

His  like  we  shall  not  look  upon, 

Though  millions  rise  and  pass  away; 

Though  there  should  come  a  brighter  day, 

No  man  can  on  the  scroll  of  fame 

Emblazon  a  more  glorious  name; 

Of  deeds  heroic,  none  can  be 

Of  higher,  loftier  degree 

Than  those  he  did  amid  the  storm, 

When  flowed  the  life  blood  fresh  and  warm 

From  out  the  Nation's  bleeding  form. 


271 


INJUSTICE   OF   IDLENESS. 

THE   OLD   MAN'S   REQUEST. 

Let  me  rest  where  you  will,  the  only  condition 

I  attach  to  the  choice  .of  a  place  for  my  tomb, 
Be  it  where  my  loved  wife — God  bless  her  devotion  — 

May  rest  when  her  life  shall  eternally  bloom; 
Fan  her  gently  I  pray,  ye  soft  winds  of  heaven, 

Oh,  peaceful  and  calm  may  her  life's  river  e'er  glide, 
For  each  sorrow  a  balm,  oh,  let  it  be  given, 

When  life's  journey  be  o'er  let  her  rest  by  my  side. 

Through  sunshine  and  storm  of  life's  checkered  voyage, 

The  soul  of  my  being  —  my  life's  guiding  star, 
Devoted  companion  to  soothe  and  encourage, 

My  solace  in  peace  and  my  goddess  in  war; 
When  alone  there  remains  the  beautiful  casket, 

\Vhen  the  spirit  of  life  shall  have  flown  from  my  bride, 
Remember  my  prayer — in  love's  name  I  ask  it, 

Let  her  rest,  sweetly  rest  in  peace  by  my  side. 

Let  her  rest  by  my  side  when  the  light  of  her  glory 

In  the  sunset  of  life  shall  grow  dim  'till  it  fade, 
When  life's  chapter  be  closed,  and  ended  the  story, 

Let  her  dust  with  my  dust  in  silence  be  laid; 
She  hath  shared  with  me  long  life's  pain  and  its  pleasure, 

The  light  of  my  soul,  since  I  kissed  her  my  bride; 
Hath  filled  all  my  life  with  sweet  joy  in  full  measure, 

When  her  night  cometh  on  let  her  rest  by  my  side. 


INJUSTICE    OF    IDLENESS. 

All  days  of  idleness  are  brought  to  one 

By  throwing  on  some  other  double  weight; 

For  never  since  our  parents'  woes  begun 
Has  oped,  on  earth,  a  Paradisal  gate. 

All  here  are  called  to  labor,  and  the  road 
Is  measured  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave; 

If  so,  through  life  some  bear  a  lighter  load, 
Their  honor,  then,  is  less  in  being  brave. 


272 


THE  WARRIOR'S  DEATH, 

THE   SWORD    OF   WALLACE, 

Sword  of  Wallace,  how  we  love  it, 
None  more  brightly  shone  above  it, 

None  was  truer  to  its  trust; 
None  was  braver  in  endeavor, 
Treason's  grasp  to  quickly  sever, 
I^et  it  proudly  shine  for  ever, 

Free  from  time's  destroying  rust; 
'Tis  of  him  a  true  reminder, 
There  was  never  yet  a  kinder 

Heart  consigned  to  mother  dust. 

Sheathe  it  proudly,  as  he  wore  it, 
Sheathe  it  bravely,  as  he  bore  it, 

Emblem  true  of  loyalty; 
First  in  battle  line  defending, 
First  amid  the  traitors  wending, 
Where  the  Blue  with  Grey  were  blending; 

In  the  struggle  there  to  see, 
That  the  cause  of  right  was  winning, 
Over  hosts  of  rebels  sinning, 

'Gainst  the  banner  of  the  free. 

Sheathe  that  glinting  sword  of  battle, 
For  no  more  the  din  and  rattle 

Of  the  conflict  now  is  heard; 
For  its  flag,  behold,  is  streaming, 
Over  heroes  who  lie  dreaming, 
Where  its  powerful  stroke  was  gleaming, 

For  the  right  —  his  chosen  word, 
As  it  struck  the  foe  with  terror, 
Free  from  cowardice  and  error, 

It  is  Freedom's  glorious  sword. 


THE    WARRIOR'S   DEATH. 

L/ife's  battle  wanes  apace  at  last; 

LO!  in  the  WTest  its  setting  sun 
Gives  way,  and  shadows  dim  are  cast, 
Which  tell  the  warrior's  work  is  done; 
Upon  his  brow 
A  smile  plays  uow, 
Telling  the  final  vict'ry's  won. 

273 


THE  LONG  ROLL  IS  BEATING. 

The  long  roll  is  beating,  haste,  haste  to  the  battle, 

The  boom  of  the  batteries'  thunders  enlarge, 
The  sharp  ringing  sound  of  the  musketry's  rattle 
Nerved  every  brave  heart  to  the  call  of  the  charge. 

Into  the  crash 

With  sudden  dash 
They  met  the  rebel's  haughty  line, 

Causing  to  reel 

Their  blades  of  steel, 
And  lower  foul  treason's  flaunting  sign. 

Charge  !  heroes,  charge  !  for  the  life  of  the  Nation 

Now  hangs  in  the  balance,  'tis  yours  to  declare, 
Whether  the  hope  of  your  father's  creation 
Shall  flourish  in  peace  or  now  die  in  despair; 

Up  every  arm, 

Preserve  it  from  harm 
And  hurl  back  the  foe  to  its  doom; 

Paint  all  the  ground 

With  blood  as  you  wound, 
And  dig  for  vile  treason  a  tonib. 

Ivet  the  air  tremble  with  sounds  of  your  waking, 

And  see  that  the  foe  shall  inhale  with  each  breath 
The  poisons  of  woe  that  treason  is  making; 

Let  them  drink  to  its  dregs  the  wine  of  its  death. 

Brew  well  the  cup, 

And  fill  it  up 
With  treason's  hemlock  juice  of  hell, 

And  let  them  drink, 

Then  quickly  sink 
Into  the  grave  they  digged  so  well. 

Gallantly  forward,  swift  up  from  the  river, 

Moved  the  great  columns  of  blue-coats  into  line; 

Resolving  that  death,  and  death  only,  should  sever 

Their  will  from  their  purpose — a  purpose  divine. 

That  nothing  should  mar 

The  gleam  of  a  star, 
Nor  one  from  their  banner  be  torn; 

Though  wars  should  increase 

And  murder  sweet  peace, 
The  stars  all  as  one  must  be  borne. 


274 


THE    CAI,I«   TO   ARMS. 

"  E  pluribus  unum"  the  key  of  their  song, 
"The  union  forever"  the  echoes  replied; 
As  through  the  deep  forest  it  thundered  along, 
Forever  in  one  as  the  waves  of  the  tide. 
In  union  is  strength, 
In  breadth  and  in  length 
Our  country  unsevered  shall  be; 

Its  stars  shall  e'er  shine 
With  pure  ray  divine 
From  sky  of  its  banner  so  free. 


THE   CALL   TO   ARMS. 

Hark  to  the  voice  of  your  country  now  calling 
For  aid  in  subduing  her  traitorous  foes, 

Who  have  fired  on  her  flag,  oh  treason  appalling  ! 
Rush  quick  to  her  rescue,  resent  their  foul  blows. 

Fly  to  her  standard,  no  time  for  delaying, 
The  sound  of  disloyalty's  murderous  band 

Is  heard  through  the  hills,  her  honor  betraying, 
While  treason  is  spreading  all  over  the  land. 

Fly  to  her  standard,  the  long  roll  is  beating, 

Haste,  haste,  keep  the  old  flag  still  high  in  the  air, 

Hurl  from  her  temples,  in  terror  retreating, 

All  those  who  would  stain  her  fair  loyalty  there. 

See  them  come  flocking  from  peaceful  homes  breaking 
And  casting  their  all  at  their  loved  country's  feet; 

Her  cry  of  distress  their  manliness  waking, 
To  win  back  her  honor  or  die  in  defeat. 

Hark  to  the  music,  "Columbia"  is  ringing 
A  call  to  her  sons,  to  the  loyal  and  brave; 

See  them  march  on,  each  true  heart  bravely  singing 
The  Union  forever  or  rest  in  the  grave. 


275 


A    ROYAL    LEGACY. 

My  father  was  a  kindly  man, 
Of  massive,  stalwart  frame, 

And  when  to  speak  I  first  began, 
It  was  to  lisp  his  name; 

And  in  my  mind  I  yet  can  see 

His  face,  as  my  first  memory. 

His  look  was  such  a  searching  one, 

Shot  from  his  piercing  eye, 
As  he  would  say  to  me:  "  My  son, 

Your  country  ne'er  deny." 
I  often  wondered  why  he  said  : 
"That  is  a  message  from  the  dead." 

Above  the  mantel  hung  his  sword, 
Sheathed  in  a  well-worn  case; 
I  can  remember  every  word 

That  found  on  it  a  place: 
"  For  God,  for  Honor,  and  for  Power," 
Entwined  with  vine,  and  leaf,  and  flower. 

And  just  above,  with  pinions  spread, 

And  poised  as  if  for  flight, 
An  eagle's  form,  though  still  and  dead, 

A  grand,  imposing  sight; 
His  talons  grasping  firm  and  bold 
A  shield  and  arrows  tipped  with  gold. 

About  the  bird,  in  folds  of  light, 

The  banner  of  the  free 
Completed  that  most  stirring  sight  — 

A  glorious  trinity  ! 
In  which  was  power  to  stir  the  blood 
Of  loyalty's  great  brotherhood! 

"Come  hither,  son,"  my  father  said, 

When  we  two  were  alone  ; 
His  countenance  to  thought  was  wed, 

And  solemn  was  his  tone, 
As  taking  down  that  flashing  sword, 
He  bade  me  heed  his  every  word. 


276 


A    ROYAL    LEGACY. 

"My  son,"  he  said,  "this  sword  is  mine, 

It  was  thy  grandsire's,  boy, 
And  it  in  turn  will  soon  be  thine; 

See  that  no  rust  alloy 
Or  tarnish  its  bright,  glinting  steel, 
While  thou  hast  power  to  think  and  feel. 

"This  sword  has  hewn  the  way  to  peace, 

Through  many  bloody  frays, 
And  may  its  power  for  right  increase, 

With  increase  of  thy  days; 
Thy  sire's,  thy  grandsire's  honor,  too, 
I  give,  to  guard  with  this,  to  you. 

"  Swear,  boy,  that  while  thou  hast  a  breath 

That  flag  thou  wilt  sustain, 
And  bravely  choose  a  soldier's  death, 

Rather  than  treason's  stain 
Should  dim  the  glitter  of  its  stars, 
Or  trail  in  dust  its  shining  bars." 

Now  sire  with  grandsire  is  at  rest, 

And  yet  they  live  to-day, 
Their  loyal  spirits  in  this  breast 

Rule  with  a  fervent  sway; 
To  touch  that  sword  is  e'er  to  hear 
Clearly  resounding  in  my  ear  : 

"'For  God,  for  Honor,  and  for  Power,' 

This  motto  ever  keep, 
And  if,  perchance,  should  come  the  hour, 

Bid  every  feeling  sleep, 
Save  that  the  hope  of  all  the  world 
Is  that  our  flag  be  kept  unfurled." 


277 


THE   DISASTER  OF   JOHNSTOWN. 

All  day  o'er  the  city  of  Johnstown, 

The  sun,  like  an  emblem  of  love, 
Had  brilliantly  lighted  that  valley 

And  Peace,  like  a  white-winged  dove, 
Dispelled  every  thought  of  disaster  ; 

No  cloud  came  to  mar  the  sweet  dream 
Of  this  valley  which  lay  in  the  mountains 

Asleep  by  the  murmuring  stream^ 

The  sound  of  the  forge  and  the  bellows 

Was  heard  floating  out  on  the  air  ; 
The  laughter  of  children  that  sported 

Unfettered  by  sorrow  or  care  ; 
The  mill  with  the  sound  of  its  grinding, 

All  over  the  valley  was  heard, 
And  out  from  the  orchards  came  floating 

The  sweet  notes  of  the  warbling  bird. 

All  nature  seemed  full  of  rejoicing, 

The  stream  through  the  valley  along, 
A  lullaby  sang  to  that  city  — 

A  sweet  and  ineffable  song  ; 
The  mountains  looked  down  so  benignly, 

For  now  their  great  shadows  were  cast, 
As  if  they  would  shroud  the  sweet  valley 

In  dark,  mystical  realms  at  last. 

Hark  !  lo,  a  wild  horseman  is  coming, 

As  though  to  a  hurricane  wed  ; 
His  face  it  is  ashen  and  pallid 

As  though  'twere  the  face  of  the  dead  ; 
His  hair  is  disheveled  and  flying, 

By  winds  madly  fanned  in  his  speed  ; 
With  lash  and  with  spur  he  is  urging 

Still  swifter  his  noble  bay  steed. 

His  voice  echoes  over  the  valley, 

"  Flee,  flee  to  the  hills  for  your  lives  ! 
The  lake  has  burst  out  of  its  bondage, 
Flee,  flee,  ere  the  torrent  arrives  !  " 


278 


THE   DISASTER   OE  JOHNSTOWN. 

Swift  on  down  the  valley  lie  passes, 
To  warn  all  the  people  of  harm, 

His  voice  bearing  earnest  conviction 
And  filling  each  breast  with  alarm. 

The  people  rush  out  of  their  dwellings 
To  see  the  wild  horseman  go  by, 

But  few  of  them  heeded  his  warning  — 

"  What  means  he,"  they  ask,  "  by  this  cry? 

One  moment  they  waited,  inquiring, 

Then  came  down  the  valley  a  sound 

Like  a  mighty  battle  of  thunders, 

While  trembled  affrighted  the  ground. 

Then  came  a  great  wall  of  black  waters, 

So  fierce  in  its  wild,  maddened  course 
That  it  crushed  all  things  in  the  valley 

With  its  mighty  and  terrible  force. 
Trees  swayed  like  the  grass  in  the  tempest, 

And  houses  were  hurled  in  the  air, 
While  Death  rode  the  waves  of  the  deluge 

And  spoke  to  each  heart  of  despair. 

The  billows  reached  out  in  their  anger 

And  shouted  to  valley  and  hill  : 
"  We  demand  every  one  for  our  vengeance, 

No  power  can  withstand  our  strong  will. 
Bring  every  fond  father  and  mother, 

And  every  pure  babe  and  sweet  child ; 
Not  one  of  them  all  shall  escape  us, 

With  vengeance  alone  we  are  wild. 

"  For  I,  the  great  spirit  of  waters, 

Have  spoken  my  edict  in  power, 
That  death  shall  rule  over  this  valley, 

His  reign  be  complete  in  an  hour. 
All  those  who  pay  tribute  to  Mammon, 

All  those  who  are  servants  of  God, 
Not  one  of  them  all  shall  escape  me, 

Whose  feet  in  this  vallev  have  trod." 


279 


THE    DISASTER   OK  JOHNSTOWN. 

The  call  of  these  murderous  waters, 

None  heard  but  were  bound  to  obey  ; 
All  hell  in  its  fury  came  rushing 

Along  with  the  waters  that  day. 
Sweet,  innocent  babes,  from  the  bosoms 

Of  mothers  were  ruthlessly  torn, 
And  away  by  the  black,  rushing  demons 

To  death  and  destruction  were  borne. 

Strong  men  were  dry  reeds  in  its  fury, 

Tossed  hither  and  thither  at  will  ; 
Its  craving  for  life  was  appalling, 

Its  desire  alone  was  to  kill. 
It  seized  the  fair  maids  in  their  beauty, 

With  strength  of  unmeasured  desire, 
And  proved  its  deep  passions  far  greater 

Than  all  of  the  demons  of  fire. 


It  kissed  madly  their  cheeks,  and  the  roses 

Were  instantly  faded  and  gone  ; 
The  pallor  of  death,  like  dull  ashes, 

Lay  over  them  all  as  though  one. 
It  toyed  with  their  beautiful  tresses, 

Alike  with  the  dark  and  the  fair  ; 
Laughed  loudly  in  mocking  derision 

At  cry  of  their  wailing  despair. 

All  death  seemed  that  day  in  the  waters 

And  chose  in  this  valley  where  bloom 
Was  fairest  and  purest,  most  lovely, 

To  make  for  its  victims  a  tomb. 
Oh,  God  !  when  the  waters  receded, 

What  a  sight  was  there  to  behold  ! 
The  fair  and  the  weak  and  the  mighty 

Of  earth,  on  its  bosom  lay  cold  ! 


280 


WORLD'S  COLUMBIAN   EXHIBITION 


The  flame  of  truth  burns  bright  and  strong, 

The  world  is  dazzled  by  its  rays; 
A  paean  grand  bursts  from  the  throng, 

An  anthem  of  devoutest  praise. 
And  here  aloft,  kissing  the  sky, 

The  starry  banner  is  unfurled, 
Revealing  unto  every  eye 

The  hope  and  light  of  all  the  world. 

Behind  us  lie  the  shades  of  night, 

Before,  the  bright,  eternal  morn; 
Bach  moment  yields  a  new  delight, 

Bach  day  a  higher  trust  is  born. 
The  faith  of  yesterday,  to-day 

Is  turned  to  knowledge,  and  we  rise, 
Testing  the  truth  of  prophecy 

In  light  of  new  discoveries. 

The  faith  that  ruled  the  Spaniard  bold, 

And  drew  him  westward  o'er  the  seas, 
Is  current  coin  to-day.     Behold, 

The  need  of  greater  argosies! 
However  bright  the  light  may  shine, 

However  radiant  bursts  the  dawn: 
Darkness  the  shores  beyond  entwine, 

And  Hope  still  whispers  "  on  and  on!" 

The  winds  blow  fierce,  the  waves  dash  high; 

Life  is  an  ocean  deep  and  wide; 
Death  strews  the  way,  its  victims  lie 

Helpless  upon  the  heaving  tide. 
Watchman,  ahoy!     What  of  the  night? 

Gleams  there  no  sign  of  coming  dawn?" 
Yes,  Captain,  yes;  there  is  one  light  — 

The  star  of  Hope  shines  brightly  on." 


281 


THE    CHARGE. 

The  waves  grow  rougher  day  by  day; 

All  that  we  are,  or  strive  to  be, 
Is  now  required  to  sail  the  way 

To  mankind's  final  destiny. 
;  Man  overboard!"     Quick!  lend  a  hand, 

He  must  not  sink  beneath  the  wave; 
Accursed  would  be  the  harbor  land 

If  reached  by  a  neglect  to  save! 

Sail  on!  sail  on,  brave  hearts,  sail  on! 

Though  tempests  rage  and  billows  roar; 
For  idle  hands  there  comes  no  dawn, 

Work  balms  the  aching  to  the  core. 
Sail  on!  sail  on!  tread  firm  the  deck, 

Shout  loud  the  song,  nor  pause  to  weep; 
To  the  brave  heart  can  come  no  wreck  — 

He  will  provide  His  servants  sleep. 


THE   CHARGE. 

Hark  to  the  bugle's  stirring  blast, 

The  rolling  of  the  drum, 
The  shouting  of  the  loud  command; 

The  charging  foe,  they  come  ! 
And  like  a  wild,  fierce  hurricane, 
With  clouds  surcharged  with  deadly  rain, 

They  strike  the  listener  dumb, 
As  with  their  deadly  missiles  there 
They  fill  and  blacken  all  the  air. 

Now  rolls  the  seething  tempest  high, 

Its  thunders  rend  the  sky  ! 
At  every  burning,  scorching  flash, 

Stern  echo  ings  reply, 
Then  dashes  doubly  fierce  again 
The  life-destroying  hail  and  rain, 

Which  human  power  defy, 
For  every  flash  and  thunder  tone, 
Claims  countless  victims  for  its  own. 


282 


FORGIVENESS. 

OCTOBER   HILLS. 

A  silver  vail  hangs  o'er  the  wooded  hills 
And  curtains  out  the  kisses  of  the  sun; 

'Neath  the  green  forest  bowers,  the  tiny  rills, 

With  measured  flow,  to  low-voiced  music  run; 

The  wild  bird's  notes,  of  sweet  melodious  song, 
Flow  like  a  stream  of  melody  along. 

The  scarlet  leaves  with  listless  motion  fall, 

Wavering  through  the  air  with  scarce  a  sound; 
Silence,  like  magic,  broodeth  over  all, 

The  air  is  motionless  as  is  the  ground. 
The  long  and  polished  needles  of  the  pines, 

No  longer  tremulous,  are  still  as  death; 
No  fern  or  blade  of  grass  sways  or  inclines 

As  is  their  wont,  to  Zephyr's  faintest  breath. 

The  sky  a  perfect  canopy  o'erhead, 

And  drooping  all  about,  its  folds  of  blue 
vSeem  nearer  drawn,  than  where  the  lowlands  spread 

From  morning's  waking  sun,  'til  evening's  dew; 
While  here  and  there  a  fragile  gleam  of  mist, 

Seems  like  a  bit  of  Summer's  bridal  veil, 
Torn  from  her  train,  and  by  the  sunbeams  kissed 

To  sky-seas  for  some  Sunsprite's  barque  a  sail. 


FORGIVENESS. 

And  it  is  best  while  yet  we  live, 
To  heal  all  heartaches  and  forgive. 
For  life  at  best  is  but  a  span 
Wherein  the  grandest,  noblest  man 
Is  he  who  gives  to  one  and  all 
Forgiveness  unconditional. 

Forgiveness,  oh!  the  holy  balm, 
No  word  so  sweet  from  human  tongue; 
Life's  bitter  storm  becomes  a  calm 
As  flows  its  healing  sound  among 
The  waves  of  woe,  which  constant  rise 
To  blot  the  sun  from  out  our  skies. 


283 


THE   CHRISTMAS  TREE. 

Oh  !  fair  are  the  boughs  of  the  Christmas  tree, 

And  rich  are  the  fruits  that  they  bear  ; 
No  good  of  the  land  or  the  rolling  sea, 
No  matter  where  or  however  it  be, 

But  are  found  to  be  growing  there. 
Then  welcome  all, 
At  Christmas  call, 
Let  the  glad  chimes  ring  with  glee, 
And  drive  away, 
All  care  to-day, 
While  we  dance  round  the  Christmas  tree. 

Let  the  proud  ships  sail  from  over  the  main, 

And  may  all  of  the  winds  be  fair  ; 
And  bring  of  their  stores  to  the  tree  again, 
From  Alaska's  shores  and  the  isles  of  Spain, 
Of  the  wealth  which  they  have  to  spare. 
The  Christmas  tree 
To-day  shall  be, 
The  richest  that  ever  grew  ; 
No  wind  shall  blow, 
No  river  flow, 
But  shall  add  to  its  wealth  anew. 

Let  the  divers  plunge  to  the  ocean  caves, 

Where  the  royal  Sea-king's  jewels  are, 
Unlocking  the  grasp  of  the  white-capped  waves, 
Which  have  held  the  gems  from  the  eyes  of  knaves, 
With  a  greater  than  miser's  care. 
From  every  store 
We  most  adore, 

Of  its  wealth  be  gathered  free, 
For  I  declare, 
No  jewel  rare, 
Is  too  good  for  the  Christmas  tree. 

From  the  palmy  isles  of  the  Southern  seas, 

From  the  vaults  of  eternal  snow  ; 
From  the  matin  winds  to  the  vesper  breeze, 
From  the  heights  of  lands  to  the  depths  of  seas 


284 


ELIJAH   AND    THE    RAVENS. 

Let  messengers  speedily  go, 

And  quickly  bring 

Their  offering, 
And  the  crown  for  each  one  shall  be, 

The  matchless  prize 

Of  loving  eyes, 
That  are  charmed  by  the  Christmas  tree. 

In  a  precious  soil  grows  the  Christmas  tree, 

In  the  hearts  of  the  good  and  true ; 
'Tis  the  hands  of  love  and  of  sympathy, 
That  deck  all  its  branches  so  lavishly, 

With  the  gifts  which  they  freely  strew. 
The  joy  it  gives 
Forever  lives, 

And  the  world  will  the  better  be, 
For  the  love  and  light, 
So  pure  and  bright, 
That  beams  from  the  Christmas  tree. 


ELIJAH   AND  THE   RAVENS. 

By  the  lonely  brook  of  Chereth, 

Sat  God's  servant  in  a  cave, 
Naught  of  comfort  or  of  blessing 

Save  alone  its  sparkling  wave; 
For  the  earth  was  all  a  desert, 

Famine,  famine  everywhere; 
Gone  was  fruit,  and  flower,  and  blossom,. 

Hungry  was  the  desert  air. 

But  in  God  the  prophet  trusted, 

Trusted  all  things  to  His  hand, 
Feared  not  famine,  feared  no  evil, 

In  this  waste  and  desert  land; 
Laid  firm  hold  upon  His  promise, 

Trusted  fully  in  His  word, 
And  though  human  power  forsook  him, 

Yet  his  faith  was  firm,  unstirred. 


285 


I,OVBS   TRIBUTE. 

Hunger  preyed  upon  his  system, 

Famine  stared  him  in  the  face. 
Yet  he  murmurs,  "all  sufficient 

Is  God's  bounteous  power  and  grace 
Patiently  he  waits  God's  coming, 

Asks  not  when,  or  how,  or  why, 
Only  trusting,  fully  trusting, 

Fearing  not  to  live  or  die. 

See,  there  conies  a  flock  of  ravens, 

Circling  o'er  him  in  the  sky, 
Flutt'ring  nearer,  nearer,   nearer, 

With  their  weird  peculiar  cry; 
Can  this  be  of  good  an  omen? 

Can  they  aught  portend  of  good? 
Behold,  his  simple  faith  is  honored, 

Lo,  the  ravens  bring  him  food. 


LOVE'S  TRIBUTE. 

The  heart  that  beat  with  joy  and  pride 

Is  now  forever  still, 
The  winsome,  gay  and  lovely  bride 

A  narrow  grave  has  filled. 

The  gladsome  smile,  the  loving  voice, 
Are  seen  and  heard  no  more ; 

Her  presence  that  did  all  rejoice 
Is  gone  for  evermore. 

Let  sorrow  weave  her  deepest  shade, 

And  softly  shed  her  tears; 
Let  flowers  be  gathered,  wreaths  to  braid 

By  hands  her  love  endears. 

Let  every  tribute  earth  can  pay 

Do  honor  to  her  now, 
From  every  floweret  cull  a  spray 

To  deck  her  lovely  brow. 


286 


WHAT   DAME    RUMOR    SAID. 

WAYSIDE    PLEASURES. 

When  worn  and  weary  with  life's  heavy  load, 
Our  fainting  hearts  have  been  revived  and  cheered 
By  cooling  draughts  of  sweetest  sympathy. 
Full  oft,  when  troubled  waves  rolled  high  and  fierce 
Have  kindly  hands  poured  out  the  oil  of  peace, 
And  calm,  blue  skies  have  arched  and  smiled  serene, 
Where  angry  clouds  of  storm  have  fiercely  blown, 
And  pleasant  plains  of  peace  have  oft  appeared 
Where  rugged  mountains  rose  to  bar  our  way. 
In  arid  deserts  fragrant  flowers  have  bloomed, 
And  sweet,  fresh  grasses  grown  to  cheer  our  way; 
Oft  from  our  hearts  the  piercing  thorns  of  pain 
By  tender  hands  have  been  withdrawn  with  care, 
And  hours  of  gloom  been  lit  with  joy  and  love. 


WHAT   DAME   RUMOR  SAID. 

The  morn  was  bright,  the  month  was  June, 

When  with  my  line  and  rod, 
Humming  a  gay  and  cheerful  tune, 

The  mountain  path  I  trod. 
The  dashing  stream  was  cool  and  clear, 

As  swiftly  on  it  sped, 
Filled  with  fine  trout  that  knew  no  fear, 

So  false  Dame  Rumor  said. 

From  out  my  book  the  tempting  flies, 

With  care  I  quickly  chose; 
And  angled  for  a  finny  prize, 

But  never  one  arose. 
Dame  Rumor'd  led  me  to  believe, 

That  here  no  fly  could  fall, 
But  trout  so  easy  to  deceive, 

Would  swallow  line  and  all  ! 


287 


INDEPENDENCE. 

I  fished  all  day  until  the  night, 

And  caught  one  tiny  trout; 
Its  size  so  small,  its  weight  so  light, 

Scarce  moved  my  line  about. 
With  lagging  steps  and  rueful  sighs, 

I  left  the  fishing  grounds; 
Dame  Rumor  said  I'd  caught  a  prize, 

Which  weighed  nigh  seven  pounds! 

My  friends  next  day  all  sought  the  stream^ 

And  angled  with  a  will, 
Eager  at  morning's  early  gleam, 

Their  baskets  all  to  fill. 
At  night  when  they  returned  to  town, 

All  looked  at  me  askance; 
On  every  brow  a  darkling  frown, 

Lightning  in  every  glance. 

And  now  each  one  I  chance  to  meet, 

With  injured  air  goes  by; 
Which  in  the  club  or  on  the  street, 

Says  plainly,  "Sir,  you  lie." 
Or,  with  derision's  baneful  look, 

The  hint  goes  all  the  rounds; 
"He  caught  the  trout  with  line  and  hook, 

That  weighed  nigh  seven  pounds!" 


INDEPENDENCE. 

So  live  that  thine  own  soul  within 

May  catch  and  hold  the  sweets  of  life; 

Those  may  deceive  thee  who  have  been 
Friends  in  the  hours  of  darkest  strife. 

Let  not  thine  anger  on  them  dwell, 

Deem  them  as  dead,  though  living  yet; 

Think  on  loved  scenes,  and  Beauty's  spell 
Will  banish  from  thy  mind  regret. 


288 


THE   STRUGGLE   FOR  BREAD. 


But  one  cruse  of  oil,  and  one  measure  of  meal, 

And  the  wife  lying  sick  in  the  bed; 
No  wonder  the  chills  o'er  the  husband's  heart  steal, 

As  the  future  looms  up  black  with  dread. 
The  bright  star  of  hope,  o'er  a  sea  of  despair, 

Glows  faint  in  the  gathering  gloom; 
The  clouds  by  the  tempest  are  hurled  through  the  air, 

And  roll  their  black  forms  through  the  room. 

Their  pledge  of  affection  —  fond,  cherished  first-born  — 

Is  heard  in  the  darkness  to  cry; 
It  pierces  his  heart,  as  the  thought  comes  that  morn 

Will  even  a  dry  crust  deny. 
The  wind  at  the  casement  now  pipes  forth  a  wail, 

A  howl  in  the  distance  is  heard, 
And  borne  to  his  ears  on  the  wings  of  the  gale, 

The  cry  of  an  ominous  bird. 

The  vicious  wolves  gather  while  rageth  the  storm, 

Fierce  gleam  their  white  fangs  through  the  night; 
They  leap  in  their  madness  all  over  his  form, 

And  tear  at  his  throat  gleaming  white. 
With  strength  of  a  Sampson,  spurred  on  by  true  love, 

He  dashes  their  forms  from  the  door; 
Great  God,  in  Thy  mercy,  look  down  from  above, 

And  aid  in  their  struggles  the  poor. 

The  land  has  of  fatness  enough  and  to  spare, 

But  the  misers  have  garnered  it  all, 
And  deaf  are  their  hearts,  as  the  storm-beaten  air, 

To  those  who  in  wretchedness  call. 
The  light  that  emblazons  our  banner  so  fair, 

And  justice  proclaims  to  the  world, 
Shines  on  stricken  hearts  that  are  doomed  to  despair, 

Though  their  honor  has  never  been  furled. 


289 


DIANA'S    DEFEAT. 

Hark!  through  the  woods  the  winding  horn, 
And  baying  of  the  hounds  is  heard; 

Affrighted  from  their  feast  at  morn, 
Flee  every  timid  beast  and  bird. 

"Who  dares  disturb  our  wild  retreat  ?  " 
The  Elfins  and  the  Dryads  cry  ; 

"Who  comes  with  footfalls  strong,  and  fleet 
As  wind-waves  from  a  stormy  sky  ? 

"  'Tis  she,  the  goddess  of  the  chase, 

Diana,  with  her  trailing  hounds; 
No  other  dare  invade  this  place  — 

No  other  knows  these  pathless  grounds." 

The  Water-nymphs  within  the  stream 
Gather  at  call  of  their  fair  queen; 

They  feel  their  duty  is  supreme 

To  stand,  the  hounds  and  game  between. 

On  comes  the  fleet,  affrighted  deer, 

Pursued  by  huntress  and  by  hounds; 

Trembling  from  flight  and  awful  fear, 
Into  the  stream  the  stag  now  bounds. 

Boldly  the  Water-nymphs  appear, 
Their  bravery  none  can  deny, 

For  'neath  Diana's  poised  spear, 
They  shout  defiantly  this  cry: 

41  Hold  !    but  the  shore  the  gods  thee  gave, 

We  will  protect  the  hunted  deer; 
Its  refuge  is  the  gleaming  wave; 

Stand  back  !   for  we  are  masters  here." 


290 


WRONG    IS    OF    NIGHT. 

A  GLIMPSE    OF   SPRING. 
There  are  blooms  upon  the  cherry, 

There's  an  odor  in  the  air, 
And  the  robin's  song  so  merry 

Tells  of  gladness  everywhere; 
There's  a  golden  sheen  of  glory 

Clothing  all  the  joyous  scene, 
And  the  grasses  tell  the  story 

Of  their  birth,  so  fresh  and  green. 

How  the  swallows  sail  and  twitter 

At  their  work  about  the  eaves, 
When  the  morning  sunbeams  glitter 

On  the  jewels  of  the  leaves; 
See  how  busy  at  their  labors, 

Bringing  mud  and  bits  of  straw, 
Chatting  gaily  with  their  neighbors, 

Bach  unto  itself  a  law. 


WRONG  IS  OF   NIGHT. 
Mortality  doth  shroud  the  soul 
As  darkness  veils  the  world  at  night, 
And  we,  at  best,  can  only  see 
A  glimmer  of  the  distant  stars, 
And  this  enough  to  prove  that  we 
Shall  know  the  light  when  glorious  morn 
Shall  with  its  sweet  effulgence  break 
Upon  our  sight,  and  all  around 
vShall  know  the  light,  and  feel  the  truth, 
To  be  a  part  of  each  one's  soul, 
Wherein  is  found  no  taint  of  wrong, 
For  wrong  is  of  the  night  alone, 
And  all  of  evil  is  confined 
Beneath  its  darkened  canopy. 


291 


HAIL,    BROTHER,   HAIL. 

Hail,  brother,  hail  !    how  farest  thou? 

Long  years  have  passed  since  last  we  met; 
The  frosts  of  Time  are  on  thy  brow, 

Life's  sun  for  us  inclines  to  set. 

How  hast  thou  found  the  road  of  life? 

Have  peace  and  love  enshrined  thy  path, 
Or  have  the  angry  clouds  of  strife 

Burst  o'er  thee  with  their  flames  of  wrath? 

Has  life  proved  what  in  youth  it  seemed, 
When  gilded  with  Hope's  radiant  morn? 

Have  flow'rs  proved  sweet  as  thou  hadst  dreamed, 
Or  hath  each  rose  disclosed  a  thorn? 

Dost  thou  remember  how  as  boys 

We  dreamed  and  planned,  as  all  boys  will, 
Of  all  the  bright  and  blissful  joys 

We  thought  our  future  life  would  fill  ? 

Come  sit  thee  by  this  running  stream, 
WThile  life  doth  flow  like  it  away, 

And  tell  me  if  to  thee  it  seem 

Another  stream  with  which  to  play? 

What  thinkest  thou  of  time  and  change, 
Are  seen  things  real,  or  no,  I  pray? 

Is  it  not  dreamland,  the  whole  range 
Encompassed  by  the  light  of  day? 

Is  form  and  matter,  force  and  weight, 

But  the  resultant  of  a  will  ? 
Can  we  know  aught  beyond  this  state, 

Where  we  are  grain  for  Time's  old  mill  ? 

Doth  all  life  flow  into  a  sea  — 

A  waveless,  stagnant  sea  of  death? 

Is  there  no  immortality, 

No  life  beyond  this  fleeting  breath? 


292 


MY    OLD    DUCK-CAI,!,. 

Yes,  brother,  yes,  I  feel  and  know 
That  life  is  other  than  a  dream; 

It  will  forever  onward  flow, 

And  flowing  on,  still  brighter  gleam. 

The  constant  efforts  of  the  soul, 
To  free  itself  from  bars  of  time, 

Proves  its  desire  to  reach  its  goal  — 
A  brighter,  better,  fairer  clime." 


MY   OLD   DUCK-CALL. 

I  was  feeling  through  the  pockets 

Of  my  cast-off  corduroys, 
Such  as  we,  you  will  remember, 

Used  to  wear  when  we  were  boys. 
As  I  searched  my  hunting  jacket, 

Something  from  its  pocket  fell, 
Which,  if  blessed  with  revelation, 

Could  some  wondrous  stories  tell. 

It  was  made  of  hardened  cherry, 

And  o'er  my  primitive  decoys 
It  had  brought  the  wary  "flappers" 

From  a  distance  with  its  noise; 
So  that  as  they  sailed  above  us, 

We  would  rise  and  blaze  away, 
^Til  the  evening  shadows  gathered 

At  the  closing  of  the  day. 

Gods  !    the  hunts  upon  the  marshes, 

How  the  pleasures  I  recall, 
You,  and  I,  and  little  Fannie 

Used  to  revel  in  each  Fall, 
Where  the  wild-rice  grew  in  freedom 

On  the  river's  bayous  thick, 
Where  to  bag  the  ducks  by  dozens 

Was  a  very  easy  trick. 

293 


MY    OLD    DUCK-CALL. 

Then  I  sat  me  down  reflecting, 

On  those  times  of  long  ago, 
And  my  thoughts  were  very  pleasant, 

Such  as  only  sportsmen  know; 
For  they  spoke  of  joys  unmeasured, 

Such  as  only  youths  can  feel, 
When  down  on  the  river  bottoms, 

Waiting  for  the  ducks,  they  kneel. 

I  recalled  the  vivid  picture, 

When  one  Autumn  afternoon 
You  had  wounded  with  the  rifle, 

At  long  range,  a  diving  loon; 
And  how  Fannie  sought  to  fetch  him 

From  the  bosom  of  the  lake, 
And  of  how  he  fought  like  Satan, 

With  his  kingdom  for  a  stake. 

How  you  thought  you'd  end  the  battle, 

Creeping  out  upon  a  log 
Where  a  moccasin  lay  sunning, 

And  you  jumped  into  the  bog  ! 
How  you  swore  and  raved  and  sputtered, 

And  fierce  threatened  me  with  lead, 
Wrhen  I  laughed  and  shouted  loudly 

When  we  found  the  snake  was  dead. 

Now  I  feel  the  young  blood  coursing 

Swiftly  through  my  sluggish  veins, 
And  I  feel  my  old  heart  beating 

As  my  soul  its  youth  regains; 
For  the  calendar  is  pointing 

To  the  sombre  months  of  Fall, 
I  must  try  my  skill  at  shooting  — 

Use  once  more  the  old  duck-call. 


294 


UNDER  THE  GREENWOOD  TREE. 

(Dedicated  to  the  COUNTRY  CLUB  of  San   Francisco.) 

Under  the  green  and  leafy  boughs 

Of  the  old  greenwood  tree, 
Are  joys  no  other  spot  allows, 

So  fresh,  so  pure  and  free. 

CHORUS: 
Under  the  greenwood  tree,  my  boys, 

Under  the  greenwood  tree; 
Elsewhere  there  may  be  sweeter  joys, 

But  they  are  not  for  me. 

When  Spring  her  robe  of  beauty  spreads, 

O'er  mountain,  vale,  and  lea; 
There  is  no  spot  where  beauty  weds 

Ivike  to  the  greenwood  tree. 

CHORUS  : 

Under  the  greenwood  tree,  my  boys, 

Under  the  greenwood  tree; 
Elsewhere  there  may  be  sweeter  joys, 

But  they  are  not  for  me. 

There  wild  birds  build,  and  mate,  and  sing, 

And  all  life  gambols  free; 
No  nimble  foot  or  sailing  wing 

But  loves  the  greenwood  tree. 

CHORUS  : 

Under  the  greenwood  tree,  my  boys, 

Under  the  greenwood  tree; 
Elsewhere  there  may  be  sweeter  joys, 

But  they  are  not  for  me. 

Ho,  ho  !   ho,  ho  !  w?e  shout  and  sing, 

And  laugh  right  merrily, 
And  on  the  air  our  glad  notes  fling, 

From  underneath  the  tree. 


295 


UNDER  THE  GREENWOOD  TREE. 

CHORUS  : 

Under  the  greenwood  tree,  rny  boys, 

Under  the  greenwood  tree; 
'Elsewhere  there  may  be  sweeter  joys, 
But  they  are  not  for  me. 

The  freedom  which  its  shelter  gives 

Is  that  of  high  degree, 
For  there  one  truly,  freely  lives, 

Under  the  greenwood  tree. 

CHORUS  : 

Under  the  greenwood  tree,  my  boys, 

Under  the  greenwood  tree; 
Elsewhere  there  may  be  sweeter  joys, 

But  they  are  not  for  me. 

Then  welcome  all  from  toil  and  care, 
Who  would  be  gay  and  free, 

Come  breathe  the  pure  and  fragrant  air 
Which  fans  beneath  the  tree. 

CHORUS  : 

Under  the  greenwood  tree  my  boys, 

Under  the  greenwood  tree; 
Elsewhere  there  may  be  sweeter  joys, 

But  they  are  not  for  me. 


296 


TWO    CENTRAL   POINTS. 

A   LITTLE   PRINCESS. 

1  know  a  winsome  bit  of  light, 

Who  sunshine  carries  everywhere  ; 

Who  is  her  mama's  chief  delight, 
Bringing  her  joy  without  a  care. 

If  you  could  see  her  great,  brown  eyes, 
And  catch  the  glinting  of  her  hair, 
You  would  exclaim  in  great  surprise  : 
"She  is  all  sweetness,  I  declare  !" 

She  never  yet  was  known  to  cry, 

Nor  naughty  be  one  single  hour; 

And  none  who  know  her  will  deny 
The  magic  sweetness  of  her  pow'r. 

She  is  a  little  lady  quite, 

So  neat  and  pretty,  sweet  and  good  ; 
Her  garments  all  of  purest  white 

From  dainty  slipper  to  her  hood. 

And  everybody  loves  her  well, 

Some  for  herself,  but  I  mistake 

If  many  more  the  truth  would  tell  : 

They  love  her  for  her  mama's  sake. 

But  she  is  sweet  and  cute,  I  vow, 

I  would  just  dearly  love  to  shake  her 

She  is  a  doll,  I  must  allow, 

This  Princess  Helen  Wilber- Baker. 


TWO   CENTRAL   POINTS. 

Stranger,  from  whence  and  whither  bound  ? 

He  said,  "  I  have  but  left  my  home  ; 
.All  roads  lead  there,  I've  ever  found, 

And  from  thence  lead,  for  me,  to  Rome." 


297 


MOUNTAIN    PLEASURES. 

Who  says  that   a  trip   to   the   mountains, 
Away  from  the  marts  and  their  din, 

Is  not  as  the  stream  of  salvation 

Compared  to  the  highways  of  sin  ? 

Just  let  him  stand  forth  and  affirm  it  — 
If  such  an  one  there  should  here  be  ; 

I'll  vouch  for  the  fact  that  his  nature 

To  cleanse  would  exhaust  the  deep  sea. 

One  who,  in  invisible  water, 

Forever  is  washing  his  hands, 
And  plying  his  cunning  devices 

All  over  the  seas  and  the  lands. 

Who,  with  gay  colored  net  of  seduction, 
Casts  ever  to  catch  whom  he  can  ; 

An  enemy,  selfish  and  tireless, 
A  foe  unto  God  and  to  man. 

For  who  can  love  God  or  His  creatures, 
Unless  he  loves  God's  work  alone, 

Where  His  revelations,  unchanging, 
Are  written  in  rivers  and  stone  ? 

A  trip  to  the  Upper  Sierras 

Gives  one  a  broad  view  —  above  creeds, 
Of  that  which  the  Master  has  written 

Concerning  man's  innermost  needs. 

A  sermon  in  each  laughing  brooklet ; 

An  anthem  in  each  foaming  stream  ; 
Each  mountain  a  symbol  of  glory, 

From  which  benign  blessings  e'er  gleam. 

Alone  with  God's  work  !    How  it  solemns 
And  leads  the  faint  heart  to  the  brink 

Of  life's  flowing  river  of  sweetness, 

While  whisper  God's  angels  :  "Drink,  drink." 


298 


ALPHA    AND    OMEGA. 

The  years  sweep  on;  Time  knows  not  rest  nor  sleep; 

Unwearied  and  perpetual  his  speed; 

In  calm  or  storm  his  mighty  steeds  move  on, 

Grinding  beneath  his  chariot  wheels  all  things 

That  are,  into  a  dust  impalpable. 

He  seems  a  god  of  many  whims  and  moods, 

Requiring  all  of  change  that  is  to  please 

His  fancy  and  to  satisfy  his  soul. 

With  lute  of  lively  breathing  calls  he  forth, 

From  out  the  southland  where  the  palm  trees  wave, 

When  wooed  to  motion  by  spice-laden  airs, 

The  merry  blossom-circled  maiden  fair, 

Who  to  the  measure  of  his  music  trips, 

With  many  changing  steps,  to  please  his  whims. 

Her  magic  wand  she  waves,  and  lo  !    the  birds 

Of  song  and  beauty  circle  round  her  nigh, 

Singing  in  harmony  with  his  gay  lute, 

While  blossoms  burst  from  vine  and  spreading  tree, 

And  all  the  air  is  laden  with  their  sweets. 

This  pleasantry  a  season  satisfies, 

And  then  his  music  grows  more  sweet  and  low, 

When  Summer,  with  an  air  of  dignity 

And  graces  matronly,  appears,  serene 

And  calm,  as  certain  of  her  course  and  work. 

Anon,  to  slow  and  measured  music,  comes 

The  bronzed  and  rosy  Autumn,  bending  low 

Beneath  her  fruits  —  rich  promises  fulfilled. 

When,  weary  of  feasting  and  of  fatness, 

Time  changes  yet  again  his  notes  and  plays 

Of  fierceness,  flood  and  storm,  of  cold  and  death, 

\Vhen  Winter,  breathing  sickles  sharp  and  keen, 


299 


ALPHA    AND    OMEGA. 

~Sweeps  o'er  the  scene,  destroying  every  sign 

Imprinted  by  this  trio  of  fair  queens; 

And  this  is  all  :    hope,  labor,  reaping,  death  ! 

Time  watches  o'er  the  cradle  of  each  birth, 

And  dallies  with  our  infancy,  and  weaves 

A  magic  wreath  which,  wooed  to  fragrant  bloom, 

Clothes  all  our  future  with  a  livery, 

Gorgeous  and  beautiful  unto  the  eye. 

Adown  this  vista  of  the  future  years 

Appears  the  smooth  and  pleasant  path  of  peace, 

Winding  beneath  umbrageous  forests  cool, 

Where  sparkling  fountains  play  and  sweet  birds  sing, 

Forming  a  perfect  paradise,  wherein 

No  serpents,  seeming,  ever  can  intrude. 

Time  early  weds  our  infancy  to  Hope, 

And  never  has  he  known  a  sweeter  bride  — 

Fair  sister  she  of  Immortality. 

On  placing  our  young  hand  within  her  palm 

He  whispers  :    "  She  will  ever  be  thy  friend, 

Cleave  unto  her  as  unto  life.     Give  heed 

Each  moment  of  thy  way  unto  her  voice, 

And  thou  shalt  reap  thy  soul's  most  fond  desire." 

Dear  Hope  !    How  fair  her  form  !    How  sweet  her  smile  ! 

How  luminous  and  bright  her  wondrous  eyes  ! 

How  auspicious  the  journey  when  begun  ! 

A  little  way  and  Grief  beside  a  grave 

Throws  over  our  young  heart  a  grewsome  awe, 

That  ever  hangs  about  us  on  the  way, 

And  Sorrow  follows  closely,  draped  in  tears. 

What  weight  has  grief,  or  pain,  or  ills,  or  woe? 
What  matters  if  the  sun,  with  scorching  ray, 
Beats  down  upon  our  unprotected  head, 


300 


AI^PHA   AND    OMKGA. 

And  withers  every  leaf  and  verdured  blade, 

Making  of  blooming  gardens  deserts  wild  ? 

Doth  not  Hope  beckon  on  with  winning  smile? 

Doth  she  not  point  to  honor  and  to  fame  ? 

Holds  she  not  in  her  hands  a  jewelled  crown, 

A  wand,  and  health,  and  length  of  days,  and  love  ? 

Doth  she  not  say:  "These  are  for  you,  press  on  ?  " 

The  way  grows  rough  and  slippery  to  the  feet, 

Yawning  chasms,  seemingly  bottomless, 

Fall  away  to  darkness  on  either  hand 

Of  our  perilous  way,  which  now  becomes 

A  source  of  abject  terror  and  affright; 

The  wind  blows  fierce;  the  rain  in  torrents  falls; 

The  lightning  blinds  the  sight,  and  thunders  roll 

With  terror-waking  detonations  near, 

And  reverberating  through  the  gorges  wild 

Which  are,  we  dimly  see  by  lightning's  gleam, 

Strewn  thickly  with  the  bruised  and  mangled  forms 

Of  countless  wretches  who  have  fallen  here; 

Swerve  but  a  hair's  breadth  from  the  narrow  way, 

And  all  will  end  in  darkness  and  despair. 

Just  here,  with  piercing  shriek,  a  brother  slips; 
He  clings  with  strength  of  wild  despair,  clutching 
The  narrow  shelving  of  our  path,  and  swings 
Over  the  wall  of  the  great  precipice  ! 
Horror  depicted  on  his  face,  he  calls, 
In  tones  of  deepest  anguish,  for  our  aid  ; 
Our  terror-frozen  limbs  refuse  to  stir; 
Our  lips  are  speechless,  and  our  eyes  grow  dim; 
A  faintness  creeps  into  our  heart  and  stills 
Its  beating,  as  we  sway  toward  the  chasm  ! 
Instinctively  our  hands  clasp  those  that  cling,. 
When  lo  !    we  find  our  brother  and  his  load, 


301 


ALPHA   AND    OMEGA. 

Added  unto  our  own,  doth  lighten  all  ! 

We  lift  the  fallen  to  the  path  again, 

And  through  a  rift  within  the  rolling  clouds 

Streams  an  effulgent  burst  of  light,  which  falls 

Upon  our  path  to  guide  and  cheer  our  way. 

Fame  comes  not  here,  but  joy  doth  fill  our  soul  ; 

And  Mercy  whispers:    " Peace,  brave  heart,  well  done/ 

This  is  the  acme  of  all  striving  here, 

The  royal  robe,  the  magic  wand,  the  crown; 

All  else  is  fleeting  as  the  years,  as  vain 

And  unsubstantial  as  the  rainbow's  gleam. 

Our  limbs  grow  weary  and  our  hearts  more  weak, 

As  with  a  pale  and  mellow  light  the  day 

Fades  slowfy  from  the  mist-draped  evening  sky. 

Ashes  of  hopes  within  the  bosom  lie, 

Where  Sorrow  sits  beside  a  sepulcher, 

Scanning  the  record  of  the  past,  through  tears. 

The  vista  groweth  dark  and  darker  still, 

As  fade  the  mortal  senses  —  sight  and  sound; 

But  there,  piercing  the  gloom,  shines  one  bright  star, 

Sweet  Hope,  forever  dear,  forever  bright, 

Forever  leading  up  and  on,  and  on. 

The  struggle  ceases,  all  is  calm  and  still; 

The  star's  light  flickers  faint  and  dim.     How  cold  ! 

A  shudder  gently  moves  our  weary  frame; 

The  shadows  deepen  and  still  closer  creep; 

Our  pale  lips  move  a  little,  murmuring: 

"Come  Euthanasia  !    Father,  thy  spirit 

Light  for  our  pathway;  more  light,  still  more  light  !" 


302 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

OVERDUE. 


LD  21-100m-7,'40  (6936s) 


YC   14531 


740003 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


